


A Dash of Spice

by Covenmouse



Series: The Lion's Roar [5]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Developing Friendships, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Gen, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-02 08:43:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Covenmouse/pseuds/Covenmouse
Summary: Adding Leonie to the Blue Lions seemed like a fine idea at the time, but conflicting personalities soon threaten to put their House in disarray. As Byleth struggles to maintain the peace, new orders from the archbishop further call into question Byleth’s own suspicions about the Church and her place within its structure. Afterall, without Jeralt to worry over, does Byleth have any reason to stay at the Academy?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huzzah! I have finished the Blue Lions Route. And... asldfkjslajfd good lord, I can't even. More below. I wanted to put in a quick note that while I'm trying to be as consistent as possible with these, mistakes are bound to happen--especially given the way I'm writing them. I do want to retcon one tiny detail:
> 
> I may have mentioned in previous fics something like "Byleth's heart skipped a beat" before I realized that her heart literally doesn't beat. I actually do like that canon detail, and am moving forward with it from here. No more heart-skipping for Bye. See you at the end!

Byleth was right, she shouldn’t have made a decision about anything while the grief was fresh, instincts be damned. Not that she regretted adding Leonie to her class, exactly. The transition was not going to be easy or smooth, however.

Seteth realized before she did the sort of mistake she was making. He sat her down, alone, in his office and stared at her over steepled fingers. 

“Professor, perhaps it is uncouth of me to mention this so soon after… Mm.”

Was that a twinge of empathy in his eyes? It’s difficult to tell. Despite her months at the school, Byleth still isn’t sure what to make of Seteth. As Rhea’s second-in-command, he’d been the first to voice objections to Byleth’s appointment. He’d also remained the most apparently distressed by her continued presence. 

True, she’d made some headway with him when she helped rescue Flayn from the Death Knight, but she sensed that Seteth still wasn’t happy with how Rhea fawned over her. He’d been less than thrilled when Rhea entrusted her with the Sword of the Creator, despite the revelation of Byleth’s crest.

It could have been insulting. Perhaps it should have been. However, Byleth found his distrust comforting. 

Though she still couldn’t risk speaking honestly with him about her feelings toward Rhea, she was happy to have someone else around who was so obviously suspicious of the situation. Sure, he went along with it because he believed Rhea’s intentions were good, and Byleth went along with it because she was pretty sure Rhea would rip her throat out if she didn’t. They were still on the same side.

She isn’t used to him mincing his words, or limiting himself out of concern for her well being. It’s more unsettling than simply acknowledging the ghost between them. 

“So soon after my father died,” Byleth says for him, and is honestly surprised at how steady her voice remains. It’s taken most of a week, but her tears have finally run dry. 

“Yes,” sighs Seteth. “I did not feel it appropriate to say this in front of Ms. Pinelli, but I am aware there was some tension between the pair of you.”

“There was,” Byleth agrees. “We had a rather long conversation about that, and I believe we’ve moved past it.”

“I see.” Seteth’s eyebrows raise slightly in… surprise? He remains inscrutable as ever. “That is good to hear.” 

The comment still has weight to it; laden with all the words Seteth _ isn’t _ saying. Byleth tries not to feel insulted. She fails. 

“I have a proposition,” she says.

“Oh?” 

“I believe things would be a lot easier between us if we agree not to lie to each other.”

“Hm. I would not say I was _ lying _, precisely. Are you asking me to speak without concern for circumstances or pleasantries?” Seteth sits back, dropping his folded hands to the desk. 

“I am.”

“And are you willing to do the same?”

The mask hardens against her features, schooling them into perfect, polite blankness. Still, she feels a twinge of guilt as she responds, “Of course.”

“Good. I agree; that would minimize conflict.” Seteth turns a page around on the table, so that the text faces her. “These are the transfer papers. If you are certain about taking responsibility for Ms. Pilleni, I am under orders to allow it.”

Orders. So, Rhea got involved again.

“Do you feel so strongly against this?”

“To put it simply, yes. You have already taken on the tutelage of The Lady von Varley, and Mr. Victor in addition to the original Blue Lion House. That is quite a lot of responsibility, without adding Ms. Pinelli and the history between you into the mix. Even if you have ‘moved past it,’ as you say.”

“You raise a fair point,” Byleth says. “I assure you I considered all angles prior to agreeing. In fact, I am confident Ms. Pinelli will be better served by our House, given her plans for after graduation.”

“Oh? And what might these plans be?”

“She intends to join my father’s mercenary company. I know, firsthand, the skills that will serve her best among them, such as strong riding ability and lance work. Both of which are focused on more heavily amongst my students than the other Houses.”

Which was somewhat interesting, actually. Byleth hadn’t involved herself with the Company’s cavalry units, but somehow found herself surrounded by students who wanted riding lessons as a priority. She’d struggled right alongside them at the beginning of the year, but had found her footing easily enough. 

She was still better with a sword than a lance, but Dimitri, Ashe, Flayn, Ingrid, Bernadetta, and Sylvain formed a sometimes less-than-willing study-group that was the envy of the academy. Leonie would fit right in with them; Byleth was certain.

“That is an equally fair point,” Seteth says after a long moment. “The Blue Lions are a more physically-minded set, as befitting Ms. Pinelli.”

Seteth’s next question gives Byleth a bit more pause. “You aren’t concerned that Ms. Pinelli’s... _ distaste _ for certain elements of the nobility will be a problem? The Golden Deer, well, they _ were _a more mixed lot than the Blue Lions, before Mr. Victor’s transfer. Still, I would posit the Golden Deer are less inclined toward propriety as a rule. Given her usual attitude I would have assigned Ms. Pinelli there, myself, if she hadn’t already come from the region.”

Truly, Byleth didn’t believe it would be an issue. After all, she had specifically chosen the Blue Lions for similar reasons. Originally, their House was composed entirely of nobility and the nobility-adjacent. Even Ashe, who was born a peasant, seemed perfectly content in a subservient position to his classmates in a way that others common-born students never were. 

Byleth truly believed there was no risk of her becoming attached to them. And then she got to know them. Sure, they were all a little overly-attached to etiquette for her tastes, but even Felix was kind at his core. None of them looked down on others for being “lesser-born,” or went about flaunting their positions. If anything, most of them had cause to hate their status for various reasons. Despite herself, and her own biases, Byleth _ had _become attached. She largely expected Leonie to do the same. 

Two weeks later, she was beginning to understand Seteth’s point. 

“You need to close your stance, Pinelli. I could have skewered you five times by now.”

“Oh, please! You haven’t got anywhere near close enough for that.”

Byleth turns her attention from Bernadetta’s target practice to the group in the corner. Felix and Leonie weren’t quite at a full meltdown, but the situation was heating up. 

She’d thought pairing them off for training was a brilliant idea. They both took their work seriously, and Felix had long been in need of a partner who matched his drive and energy. Unfortunately, they both took themselves just as seriously as their training, and neither appreciated being told they were wrong.

On the walkway behind them, Sylvain was watching with naked amusement. 

Felix slaps Leonie’s lance away so hard she nearly drops it. “Only because you’re swinging that thing like you’re beating a rug. If you had proper form—”

“And what do you know about proper form? You’re using a sword, Felix, not a lance.”

“More than you, obviously. I’ve been fighting these other idiots for months. Besides, you assumed I meant to strike you from the _ front _.”

He reaches out, clearly intending to tap Leonie’s side with the flat of his training blade. She jumps backward in time to avoid it, bringing her lance up between them. The lance knocks Felix’s blade aside, and Byleth sees the boy’s feet shift in the dirt.

The move is obvious to anyone familiar with swordwork. He’d planned for her to dodge that blow, use the momentum of her return strike to spin around her side. If Felix wanted, he’d have that blade up under her ribs a breath later, before she ever had time to block him coming around her side.

But Felix doesn’t take the opportunity. He goes backward instead, putting a little distance between them. She wonders when he learned restraint. 

Maybe it was the day he made Bernie cry, going too hard on her. Leonie is made of firmer stuff, but Felix doesn’t have the feel of her yet. Byleth is strangely proud of him, despite the fact that it won’t help this situation.

“And I’d just _ let _ you get around me, is that it?”

From the sidelines, Sylvain drawls, “I hate siding with Felix. Especially over a pretty girl like you—”

Leonie scoffs.

“—But he’s right. That kind of swing definitely keeps him off your front, but he’s a lot faster in the field than he’s been going, here. Using the lance like that leaves your side unguarded, and we don’t have the pure speed or mobility of a swordwielder. Not on the ground, anyway.”

Leonie’s glower only deepens as she looks between the pair. Finally, she rounds on Felix. “Have you been going _ easy _ on me?” 

Behind Leonie’s back, Sylvain’s face becomes a mask of horror. He desperately waves his hand in a clear ‘NO’ fashion.

“Yes.”

“Excuse me?!”

“You aren’t _ ready _to spar with me on even grounds. I wouldn’t even be wasting my time with you if the Professor hadn’t asked.” Felix shakes his head. “I don’t know what Professor Manuela has been doing with your lot, but it wasn’t combat training, clearly.”

“Did you ever stop to think that _ maybe _ she asked you to spar with me because she knows I can keep up?”

Byleth was already on her way over, but the look on Felix’s face quickens her step. Her voice cuts across the training ground. “Felix.” 

It does nothing to stop or cover his response. 

“But you can’t.”

“Yeah? Or maybe you just don’t like being shown up by a commoner.”

“You really think that has anything to do with this?”

“It does, doesn’t it? You nobles, always looking down your noses at us. _ Especially _ you, Mr. I’m-The-Best-Swordsman-In-The-School. Please. Captain Jeralt could have wiped the floor with you—”

“I’m sorry to break this to you, but you _ aren’t _ Captain Jeralt. He’s dead. Besides, are you forgetting that he had a Crest, too? If that’s what we’re counting as ‘noble,’ he was closer—”

“_ Felix _.” 

He hears Byleth, this time. She can tell by the slight widening of his eyes; the sudden rigidity to his stance. Like Seteth, he’s never been one to shy away from difficult topics, but he knew that this was a step too far.

“Professor, I—”

Unfortunately, whether she heard Byleth or not, Leonie is past the point of hesitation. Her fist cracks against Felix’s jaw loud enough to echo in the sudden quiet of the training ground. 

Felix hits the ground hard, sending up a cloud of dust. If it had been quiet before, they could hear a pin drop, now.

“Who’s slow, now?” Leonie asks into that quiet. Her lance falls into the dirt at Felix’s feet, and she storms for the exit.

Leonie may be fast, but Byleth is faster and stronger. She snatches the other girl’s elbow as she passes, halting her in her steps. 

Years of self-control, years of maintaining a carefully implaccable mask, pay off, allowing Byleth to keep reign of her temper. “I will meet you in the classroom in ten minutes.”

“Bye—”

Her voice is even, but the words are clipped as Byleth restates, “Ten. Minutes.”

There is an instant when she thinks Leonie might argue. Then the girl nods, once, and lowers her voice. “Yes, Professor.”

Byleth lets her go, and turns back to Felix. He’s still on the ground, one hand pressed to his jaw. But when Sylvain offers him a hand up, Felix slaps lightly away and climbs to his feet of his own accord. 

“I’m fine,” he grouses. As he straightens his clothes, she casts Byleth a reproachful glance. “You need to rein her in. She’s little better than the boar—”

“_ Enough _.” 

Felix's eyes widen at Byleth’s tone. It won’t be long before he rallies for a fight, Byleth realizes. She doesn’t want to hear it; not in front of everyone. Unfortunately, she didn’t actually have a plan for how to handle this—she just knew she had to say _ something _ before the situation got worse. 

Handling it like her father did an in-camp tussel seemed like the best response. 

“Do you need to see Manuela?”

Felix scoffs. He starts to say something that’s undoubtedly going to be bitingly sarcastic, and Byleth holds up a hand. “Yes or no, Felix.”

“No.”

“Good. Follow me.” Byleth turns for the door without waiting to see if he complies, and realizes that every eye in the room is still on her.

There’s a mix of Houses in the training center today; the three professors had split their classes today so some students could attend a Crestology lecture, while Byleth put the rest through their paces and Manuela caught up on her grading. Of the witnesses around them, Caspar, in particular, is watching them with far too interested a gleam in his eyes. 

She picks Hilda out of the group, leaning against a wall and looking bored. “Sylvain, why don’t you partner with Hilda until we get back? You could stand to work on your blocking technique.”

“I’d never pass up the opportunity to get railed by a pretty girl, Professor,” he says, while Hilda groans. 

Byleth allows herself the brief satisfaction of closing her eyes and shaking her head. His innuendo is lost on the majority of the room, but it’s clear from the way Ashe goes scarlet at least one person understood. Huh. She hadn’t thought it would be him.

“Just remember the point is _ not _ getting railed, in this case,” she replies, dryly.

“Aw. No fun, Prof.” 

Sylvain winks at her, and Byleth shakes her head again. 

She holds the door open for Felix, catching the roll of his eyes as they step out into the mid-afternoon sun. 

“What are we doing,” he asks as the door closes.

“Not here.” She takes a second to glance around the church yard. It’s clear enough in this corner, but the training center always has people coming and going. A better place to chat would be—

Her gaze drifts to the stairs leading up to the chapel. Beyond it is cordoned off ruin where her father bled out on the grass. She doesn’t _ want _ to go up there. There isn’t much other choice. Finding another place to talk privately would take too long, and Leonie was already waiting in the Blue Lions’ deserted classroom. 

She needs to learn to plan these things better.

Byleth leads him up the stairs to the old chapel plaza, and pauses by a bench. She gestures to it. “Let me see your chin.”

Felix sits down, and obediently lets her have his chin. Their accord is strong enough that he doesn’t do more than hiss and mutter, “I told you, it’s fine,” as she inspects the already-forming bruise.

“I know you can take a lot of damage. You don’t have to prove that, here.”

“It’s my own fault. I should never have dropped my guard.”

“Is _ that _what you shouldn’t have done?”

“Are you honestly taking me to task for trying to help her?” Felix pulls away from Byleth’s inspection to glower at her. “I apologize for bringing your father into it. That was--I shouldn’t have done that with you, there, but she is completely unreasonable.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. That isn’t the problem, though.” Byleth takes a deep breath, steadying herself. 

“Oh? And what, pray tell, is my problem?”

“You _ push _ people, Felix. I have watched you for months now, systematically zoning in on the weakest spots of everyone around you and worrying at them until they break. That’s great in battle. Getting in your opponent’s head can give you a solid advantage. It doesn’t work so well for making friends.”

Felix stands up, the better to meet Byleth’s gaze. “Who says I want to make friends? Last I looked, I have enough people claiming that title. More than I care for, actually.”

“How wonderful for you. Some of us don’t have that luxury.”

Too late, she realizes how that sounds. Felix’s gaze flicks over her. She can practically see the conclusions forming behind his eyes. 

A sleepy voice at the back of her mind mutters, “Well, he wouldn’t be wrong.”

“Is that right--_ professor _?” 

Byleth crosses her arms, begins to think better of it, then commits to the gesture. She clears her throat. “Do you know why I asked you to help Leonie?”

“Heh. I _ assume _ it’s because she won’t last two seconds in the field with us. I hope she’s better trained on another weapon, or she’s going to be targeted the minute we engage with the next group of bandits. Granted, at least she’ll be drawing fire from Bernadetta.”

Any of the others might have flinched from the look Byleth was giving him, but not Felix. He met her disapproval head on, daring her to argue. The problem was, she couldn’t. 

The fact was, regardless of Rhea’s reasons behind her unfounded hiring of Byleth, the success was proving well worth the gamble. Byleth’s class _ was _ extraordinarily better prepared than the students from other Houses. At least, when measured in terms of survivability. While the Golden Deer and Black Eagle houses were great offensive fighters with magic and range, respectively, their other areas were so lacking that they hadn’t had a single mission without one or more students returning by stretcher. 

Byleth trained her kids like the hard-nosed mercenary who raised her. Jeralt’s rule was simple: you couldn’t get paid if you were dead, so you better not get dead. That meant focusing on defense primarily, and offense secondarily. It might take them a while to complete a job, but they all walked home on their own power afterwards. That a few of her lot were good--even great--with offensive spells was a bonus, but everyone who could handle magic was trained to healing _ first _. 

Leonie was an offensive fighter. She tried to take down her opponents quickly, with as much force as possible. That sort of tactic could work, especially in a surprise attack, but she’d go down quickly if she didn’t get a hit in right away. 

Felix’s assessment was on point. Their enemies would pick up on Leonie’s weaknesses right away, just as they had during Bernadetta’s initial outing. That had been the group’s first really close call and no one wanted a repeat.

However… 

“Technically, you’re right,” she says, and Felix frowns. “I asked you because you _ understand _ that. But that isn’t all.”

“What, then?”

“Think about it, Felix. I could have put her with Dimitri. But—”

“_ Him _? The Boar would either snap and kill her outright, or go too soft on her out of pretense. Look at the way he handles Mercedes’ sloppy sword work.”

“Dimitri teaches Mercedes the way _ Mercedes _ needs to learn,” Byleth corrects. “But again, you’re correct. That method wouldn’t work for Leonie. She’s stubborn, and quick tempered, and hot headed—”

“Are you trying to say something, Professor?”

“I _ am _ saying something, Felix,” Byleth shoots back. That gives him pause. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting her to mouth off at him. 

“You and Leonie have a lot more in common than either of you are willing to consider, right now. I thought that might work out really well on the training ground, but clearly I was wrong.”

“Then why are we still talking?”

Byleth starts to reply and comes up short. She doesn’t know, actually. It had seemed important to talk to him about the incident, but… she had been wrong, hadn’t she? That entire incident was her fault, for not realizing sooner how it was going to go; for not pulling them apart before it escalated.

Felix makes a soft, breathy noise kin to a laugh. 

“That's what I figured,” he says, and shakes his head at her. “Can I go, now?”

It takes her a few seconds to get the words out, but she agrees. He smirks at her as he walks away, and Byleth stands there, waiting until he’s gone so she can tamp down the impotent rage. She isn’t even sure who she’s angry at. 

When she finally makes it to the classroom, Byleth is prepared for a fight. She isn’t prepared to find the girl sitting behind her desk, twirling absently in the chair as she stares at her feet. 

“How’s ‘The Lord Fraldarius?’” Leonie asks, pitching her voice so the false respect for his title rings obvious. 

“_ Felix _ is fine,” Byleth replies. She leans her hip against the edge of her desk. “You bruised him up pretty good, though. Did you break anything of yours?”

Leonie has her right arm by the wrist, and her knuckles look distinctly swollen. “N-no!”

Moving further around the desk, Byleth perches on the edge and holds her hand out for Leonie’s. The other girl’s cheeks go red, but she gives her hand over.

It must have been a harder punch than Felix let on. That, or the girl caught him at just the wrong spot. The jaw isn’t a great place to aim for; the bone is too hard. Either way, Leonie’s fingers are curled and red. When Byleth asks Leonie to extend them, the girl scrunches her eyes up and she makes a pained sound.

“I doubt they’re _ broken _, but you need to see Manuela,” Byleth says.

Leonie shakes her head. “I’ll be fine.”

“Manuela or Mercedes, Leonie.”

“I said I’m fine!”

Byleth raises her eyebrows by the slightest of degrees. “You believe I’m giving you a choice?”

Leonie snatches her hand away. “You can’t force me.”

She wants to tell Leonie that, yes, in a very real sense she could. If Byleth cared to get physical Leonie wouldn’t stand a chance. And if the situation was more dire, it might have come to that. But Byleth wasn’t going to play that card; not over what was likely a small sprain. 

Especially not when there was a better, more peaceable option on hand.

“You’re right about that. I will, however, have to ask Seteth to reverse your transfer.”

“What?”

When Byleth only stares at her, Leonie scoffs. “Look, I get it--I shouldn’t have punched him, no matter how much he deserved it. But where does he even get off critiquing me? I’m the lancer, not him.”

“Sylvain is a lancer. He was right there, agreeing with Felix.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started on _ him _.”

Byleth’s lips press into a thin line. “Hitting Felix wasn’t acceptable, though it was understandable. He was purposely goading you. Felix is good at that. The problem, however, is that I set you to train with him for a reason.”

“To push my buttons?” 

“To _ learn _.” Byleth raised her eyebrows. “Fighting a sword with a lance is not easy once they break past your initial range advantage. Once they’re on top of you, you’re dead.”

“But he _ didn’t _ break my range!”

“You’re right, he didn’t,” Byleth agreed, “But only because he was holding back. I should have caught and corrected him before matters became heated. That’s on me. However, it didn’t sound like you were interested in hearing them out.”

“I didn’t join your class to learn from _ them _. I joined to learn from you.”

Ah. 

“I’m not always going to be available,” Byleth says, as gently as she can. “I wish I could be, but most of the students in the class pair off in groups when we train so that I can move around more.”

Leonie sags a little, deflating once again. “I know. I guess it’s just not… quite…”

“What you had in mind?”

“Yeah.” 

“I can see that.” They were quiet a moment before Byleth continued, “It’s kind of funny, actually. At the beginning of the year, I couldn’t get Felix to hold back for anything. He didn’t _ like _ fighting anyone he considered too ‘weak’, but neither would he balk from showing them why they didn’t ‘belong’ on the training ground. His words, not mine.”

Leonie scoffs. “Yeah, I can see that. So why’d he hold back with _ me _? It really is because of the crest thing, right? Ugh! I knew it!”

Byleth shakes her head. “No, Leonie. I understand why you jump there, really I do, but—”

“How could you? You _ have _ a crest.” Jumping to her feet, Leonie begins to pace. She’s still cradling her bruised hand, but her other gestures wildly as she speaks. “They all get like that! They can hit harder and throw magic around, and they decided it makes them better than us. They’re _ not _, though.”

“Who is ‘us’ and who is ‘them’, right now?” Byleth tilts her head to one side, watching impassively as Leonie continues to pace. “As you said, I have a crest. So did Dad, by the way. Are you including him in that?”

Leonie stops. Slowly, she turns to face Byleth, her face awash with confusion. “I thought Felix was lying."

“No. Dad had a crest,” Byleth repeats. “I didn’t know, either, until we came here. Not about his crest, or mine, or what they do--none of it.”

“How—” Leonie pauses. Her frown intensifies as her gaze flickers over Byleth. “How could you not know what crests are? I heard rumors you didn’t even know about the Church. How is that possible?”

Sighing internally, Byleth leans back on both hands. Her usual, vague answers spring to mind instantly. Those are the safest ones; the ones least likely to get her in trouble with Rhea or Seteth or any of the other church officials. If Jeralt were still alive, she’d have recited them instantly, without pause or question. 

But Jeralt isn’t alive. She’s alone, and getting fed up with all these games. Besides, what does she have left to lose? It’s not like Rhea can hurt him now.

“And what am I, then?” asks Sothis, “Nothing?”

_ <<You aren’t _ nothing _ , but you do live in my head. They can’t hurt you because of me.>> _

The girl grumbles incoherently, but doesn’t argue for once. 

“Between you and me,” Byleth begins, hesitating until Leonie nods, once, to indicate this is indeed between the pair of them, “You’re right--I did know _ of _ them. You can’t live in Fodlan and not hear of the Church of Seiros or crests; not unless you’re deaf, I suppose. But they didn’t have much impact on my life.

“Dad never explained what crests were or what they did. You recall I lost my childhood memories, but retained my training? Crests weren’t part of that training, that I can tell. All I knew about was that they were something nobles were born with, and cared a great deal about.”

Byleth laughs softly. “To be perfectly honest, I thought they were just birthmarks, not magic. Which was rather confusing whenever castoffs joined the Company.”

“‘Castoffs?’”

“Noble kids born without crests. Since most of them are stripped of their inheritance they have to find other means of supporting themselves. A fair few become mercenaries.”

Leonie finds her seat again. She looks thoughtful, and Byleth gives her a short while to process before she continues. 

“As for the Church, well. I knew _ of _them, too. Most villages have a small chapel, and there’s all the holidays and… Like you said, it’s impossible not to have heard of them. But I never attended church. I never learned the stories. Dad didn’t like taking jobs from church officials, so we avoided them when possible.”

Thinking back on it, there’d been more than a few instances where she’d gotten in trouble for straying too near a Seiros chapel. Jeralt was rarely cross with her, but he’d been adamant she keep her distance. 

However, he’d never turned away a church job, either. If a priest or knight managed to corner him about one, he’d accept. They just had to catch him, first. It had been so innocuous Byleth never questioned it. Not until he walked right back into the Knights of Seiros order, despite wanting nothing to do with it. Now she understood all too well why he’d avoided the organization.

In a small, quiet voice Leonie says, “He was never comfortable here.”

The comment surprises Byleth out of her reverie. She really hadn’t thought anyone else noticed.

“I spent a lot of time with him, this past year,” Leonie continues with a slim smile. “He always seemed to be on guard. Like he was expecting an attack any second. I thought I was just imagining things.”

Byleth shakes her head. Anything she could say to that is still too dangerous, even by her relaxed standards. Their eyes meet, and in that instant something passes between them. Understanding, maybe? Whatever it is, Leonie seems to realize that this is a subject best left dropped.

“So. He really had a crest?”

“The Crest of Seiros,” Byleth confirms.

“Isn’t that the crest of the Adrestian Empire?” 

Shrugging, Byleth says, “I suppose? I have a hard time keeping them straight, honestly. Hannemon seemed surprised, but he said these things happen from time to time: Crests popping up randomly among the population.

“That’s not really the point, though.”

“No, I guess it’s not.”

Byleth sighs. “Felix wasn’t going easy on you because you don’t have a crest. I get why you’d think that, but I promise you that no one in this House thinks they’re better than you. Er, well, Felix _ does _, specifically about sword-play, but that has nothing to do with crests. If anything, most of them hate crests almost as much as you do.”

Leonie laughs. She quiets quickly, though, when she realizes that Byleth wasn’t joking. “Seriously? They’re _ nobles _. What do they have to hate?”

“Quite a bit, actually. But I don’t want to say more than that. It’s not my place, and besides, I’d rather you heard it from them.” Byleth takes a deep breath. “Start with Dimitri or Ingrid. Or, I can ask them to speak with you, if you prefer. But that’s my condition, Leonie. If you’re going to stay in this House, I need you to make an effort to meet them in the middle. And yes, I’m going to require the same of them.”

It takes another few seconds of Leonie staring at her hands before the girl nods. “Alright, By--Professor. That sounds fair.”

“Thank you. And please call me Byleth.”

“Really? No one else does.”

“Mm. The formalities are one thing I wish they’d all lighten up on,” Byleth admitted with a small, wincing smile. “They think it’s disrespectful to call me anything but Professor.”

“Then I guess I’m just going to have to be disrespectful,” Leonie replied with a smile of her own. “Um. I should maybe go see Professor Manuela, now.”

“That would be a good idea, yes.”

Leonie stands up and skirts around the desk. She pauses on the other side, glancing back. “Hey, would you _ mind _asking them… I don’t know how to start that conversation.”

“Sure; don’t worry about it. And don’t worry about training with Felix any more today, either. Unless you have other plans, you and I can have a private session tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you. I’d really appreciate that.”

As Leonie disappears through the open classroom doors, Sothis says quietly, “I think that was handled rather well, all considered.”

Byleth slumps. “Was it? ‘Cause I don’t have the faintest idea what I’m doing.”

“True. If I may, however, I believe what you are doing is channeling your father. He was a good teacher, after all.”

“Was he?” Byleth frowns.

“I… Yes? I feel as though he was but I am not entirely certain why I said that, actually. It sounds correct.”

It _ does _sound correct. Yet, Byleth doesn’t remember a time when he gave her formal instructions on anything like this. Corrections about proper etiquette, sure. Reminders of people’s names and places she’d forgotten, definitely. But she’d awoken with a pre-determined understanding of how to fight, and read, and write. 

Jeralt _ had _given her some instruction on dealing with other people. Perhaps that was what Sothis remembered. Still, that was a very long time ago.

“I didn’t realize you’d been with me for so long.”

“I believed I was dreaming…”

Someone clears their throat. “Is this a bad time, Professor?” 

Byleth’s gaze focuses on the door. She’d been so wrapped up in her and Sothis’ conversation, she completely tuned the world out. Again. Dammit, why did she keep doing that?

Seteth stands in the open doorway, his brow furrowed and arms folded behind his back. Did he hear that? 

Almost certainly. His eyes narrow as they regard each other. Byleth remembers her own suggestion, then, and their promise not to lie to each other. If he asks who she was talking to…

Not that she’d ever had any intention of keeping that promise. But what answer could she possibly give that he would accept?

“Not at all. Can I help you with anything?”

The pause between them is pregnant and weighty. Finally, Seteth says with utmost care, “Her Grace would like to speak with you.”


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth gets some questions answered, finds a new use for her goddess-given powers, and struggles with a decision she needs to make sooner than later.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” says Rhea as Byleth follows Seteth into the Archbishop’s deserted audience chamber. Seteth is about to close the doors behind them when a knight appears and whispers something. He quickly excuses himself and follows the knight out into the hall.

“He is behaving quite oddly,” Sothis mutters, and Byleth has to agree.

Their walk over had been quick and quiet, with Byleth’s nerves tingling in anticipation of a question which never came. To her surprise, Seteth didn’t even seem interested in knowing why she’d been talking to herself. That in itself was unnerving.

This wasn’t the time for that particular concern. Instead, she bows to the Archbishop. “Your Grace. I assume this is about this month’s mission?”

“In a sense, yes. More, I wished to check in with you. We have not had time to speak since Jeralt’s passing.” Rhea pauses, glancing over Byleth. Her smile turns sad; wistful. “Losing a parent… it’s never easy, no matter the circumstances. But having them taken from you so abruptly, so unexpectedly; it is another thing altogether.” 

The words are at her lips almost before they’ve crossed her mind, “It wasn’t unexpected.”

Rhea makes an inquisitive little noise in the back of her throat. “However do you mean?”

Byleth isn’t even sure herself. As the mask locks across her face, she reels mentally. Abort! screams her mind, but—but it was the truth. The abysmal truth. Could she trust Rhea with that?

Byleth isn’t sure, anymore. Ever since Jeralt’s death she’s been muddled and confused. Whatever she thought at the time is tainted by the roiling emotions caught up in the memory. 

And still, Rhea seems genuinely concerned. 

“We’re mercenaries,” Byleth covers, “We were, anyway. We’ve both killed a lot of people. It only follows that one day I would see him fall. Or maybe he’d see me fall. We wouldn’t stay lucky forever.”

Jeralt had seen her fall, in a sense. The day she’d lost her memories could as easily have killed her. It had killed a part of her; a girl he remembered and she did not. In many ways it was amazing they’d stayed together, whole and more-or-less hearty, for so long. 

“That’s quite reasonable of you,” Rhea says with concern etched across her bow. She doesn’t mention that Byleth hadn’t been acting very reasonably these past two weeks; particularly the day she’d spent locked in her father’s old room the day after his death. 

Byleth does this for her. “I’ve had time to remember how to be reasonable.”

Rhea’s smile is fleeting and strange. “Yes. I’ve forgotten how different time feels to someone of your age. For me, two weeks is little more than the batting of an eye, much less time enough to regain a sense of ‘reasonable.’”

Unsure of what to say to that, Byleth merely stares at Rhea until the woman continues, “So, I thought it only ‘reasonable’ not to send you or your students out this month. Though, truth be told, there isn’t much for you to do, anyway. I’m afraid the Knights of Seiros have not yet found the parties responsible for Jeralt’s murder.”

Disappointment. Rage. Relief. 

It is difficult for Byleth to know what to feel. She doesn’t enjoy the fact that Monica and her powerful guardian still live while Jeralt does not. However, the anger burning in her core seems at once too large and too small for consideration. She’s far too busy figuring out what to do with the hole Jeralt was meant to occupy that she hasn’t had time to dwell on revenge. Justice. Whatever this would be called.

“I see,” she says. That seems inadequate, so she continues, “Is that fair to the students? The end of the year is coming fairly soon. Field work is essential to their education. If the other classes are going out on assignment…”

Rhea’s smile seems genuine enough. “It is good to know how seriously you take their studies. Perhaps it is not fair, but—well. I suppose there are a few smaller matters they could handle, however I am somewhat loathe to put any of our students into the field knowing that unknown adversaries are at play. Not unless it becomes necessary.” 

“You don’t believe the Western Church was involved this time?”

“I have considered it, but, no. From what we have seen of the Western Church’s tactics, they seem more content raising peasant militias against the church. That is a terrible thing, of course, but it pales in comparison to transforming innocents into monsters and unleashing them upon an unsuspecting population.”

Byleth isn’t certain those who transformed were innocent at all. It seemed to her more likely that they had chosen their fate. Still, this represents a surprising display of consideration from the woman who so casually ordered the deaths of Lonato’s “peasant militia.”

No. Not casually. Byleth frowns at her own, sudden reconsideration. Had Rhea been casual in her call for the deaths of those who would raise a sword against the church, or had she been angry? 

“Angry,” confirms Sothis. “Angry and… scared, I think. She would have to be, to strike down so weak a force with such impunity.”

Not necessarily true. People in power often disliked their power merely being questioned. So far, Byleth had been assuming Rhea was much the same. But how much of that assumption was based purely upon Jeralt’s warnings?

He’d never explained why, either. He never got the chance.

Byleth’s fists clench. A sudden, irrational wave of anger crests within her, nearly overwhelming the emotional dam of her mask. But the dam is built tall and thick, and she’s had time to repair the cracks left by Jeralt’s death. It won’t break again. Not yet.

So she thinks.

Then she feels the light touch on her cheek, and a fissure erupts through the structure. 

Byleth’s hand snaps up, locking around Rhea’s wrist in an iron grip. 

What follows should be a twist of Rhea’s arm, yanking the woman’s back against Byleth’s chest. Her shoulder should pop from its socket, and Byleth’s dagger sink into her stomach. A swift, vertical cut down to Rhea’s navel. Intestines on the floor and no chance to scream.

Practiced. Fluid. Thoughtless. 

Easy as breathing.

None of it happens.

The first problem is that Rhea’s arm doesn’t budge. It doesn’t even shift, no matter the force Byleth exerts upon it.

The dagger freed from Byleth’s hidden sleeve sheath is in her fingers, but her wrist is locked frozen in Rhea’s grip. They stare at each other; calm, mint-green eyes boring into Byleth’s own.

Was this choking sensation what people meant when they said ‘heart in your throat?’ She hadn’t even seen the Archbishop move…

“What is going on in there?” Rhea asks into the dead silence of the room. “I cannot imagine you meant to attack me. Was it reflex?”

Though the woman’s voice remains calm, Byleth thinks she hears a plea beneath it. What Rhea really means is “give me a reason not to kill you.”

And the Archbishop could. Byleth is certain of that, now. Rhea doesn’t need the Knights of Seiros or Catherine or any of her other champions to handle this; she could mete out Byleth’s execution right now and there’d be nothing Byleth could do to stop her.

“Gah! Must you be so inconsiderate? Why do you always get us into these situations?,” says Sothis. “Remember the bandit with the axe, back when all this began?”

That’s right. They could go back. Byleth could stop herself from having such a terrible reaction in the first place; stop this entire scene before it gets too out of hand.

But… 

But there’s still a chance she doesn’t need to. Or, at the very least, there’s a chance she might get some answers, first.

“That—that is not so bad an idea, actually,” says Sothis, more surprised, now, than testy.

Outloud, Byleth says, “Reflex. You touched me when I wasn’t expecting it.”

It isn’t even a lie.

“I see,” says Rhea. To Byleth’s surprise, the woman carefully lets her go. Byleth puts her knife away as Rhea takes two steps way. “Are you so very uneasy here?”

Byleth’s instincts scream at her to deflect, to defer. But this is going to be a wash, right? She’s going to undo this, so what’s the point in mincing her words.

“How could I not be?”

“Excuse me?”

“If I may be frank…” At Rhea’s nod, Byleth continues, “You strong armed Father and me into taking positions here. You order people to their deaths for asking simple questions. How could you not have realized how uneasy we were?”

Rhea’s eyes widen 

“Is that what you think of me?”

“That is what I’ve seen of you.”

Rhea takes a sharp breath, her cheeks flushing pink. “That is entirely—Your Father did you a great injustice when he ‘ran away’, as you say. He never should have taken you from us.”

“How do you figure that?”

Truly, Byleth expects Rhea to say something along the lines of “I don’t owe you any answers.” What she isn’t expecting is for Rhea to say, albeit reluctantly:

“You say I had Lonato executed for asking questions. I’m somewhat alarmed to think that’s your impression of the situation. No. Had Lonated asked questions or expressed concerns, I would have listened. Instead, he raised an army and threatened our holdings.”

“You killed his son.”

“We executed a traitor to his country who incited one of the largest massacres in Fodlan’s history,” Rhea countered. “The Kingdom was without a crowned ruler, and being guided to war against an entire people by a legion of angry nobles; any of whom could have used the opportunity to stage a coup against the proper line of succession. The result would have been an even more bloody civil war. So we intervened, halting matters by bringing to justice those culprits whom we could apprehend.”

“And you’re so sure Christophe had anything to do with it?”

“He admitted his guilt.” Rhea shakes her head. “I understand why Lonato could not come to terms with this, in the end. However, I could not allow him to threaten the people under my protection simply because he won’t accept that his son committed treasonous acts and faced a penalty for them.”

That wasn’t how she’d put it at the time, Byleth thinks. She’s trying to form this into a question when the doors open behind them and Seteth marches in with Flayn on his heels.

“Brother, you cannot leave me behind!”

“This will not be a mere visitation,” Seteth countered. “And it is not open for discussion.”

“But—”

“Seteth,” Rhea asks, cutting through Flayn’s continued protests, “Whatever is going on?”

“I am afraid I have been given disturbing news.” His eyes cut toward Byleth. “Professor, I apologize, but I must ask to speak to the Archbishop in private.”

“That will not be necessary.” Rhea ignores Seteth’s startled gaze, focusing instead on Flayn. “Close the doors.”

Though she looks unhappy, Flayn does as told. Rhea waits until the girl has rejoined them before speaking again. “Professor, given our recent conversation I would prefer to have you stay as witness. However, I trust that you will keep our counsel private, should we decide the matter to be sensitive.”

“Rhea,” Seteth interjects, only to be silenced by the lifting of Rhea’s fingers.

And there it is again, Seteth’s old distrust of her flickering in his eyes. Byleth sees this as the man glances her over again. 

Briefly, she debates sending herself back now—but no. No. So far this gamble has worked out. Let it play a little longer.

“You have my word, Your Grace.”

Another slim, but genuine smile plays across Rhea’s lips as she nods her head in acknowledgement. It fades, and she turns to Seteth. “Go ahead.”

Seteth clears his throat, and focuses on Rhea.

“While the Knights of Seiros have been focused on finding the unknown parties who infiltrated the monastery, they Western Church has once again rallied forces. A small contingent overwhelmed the guards posted at the Shrine of Cichol.”

Rhea’s lips thin, but she nods. “Unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected. Once we have matters settled with—”

“I am taking a small contingent to see to the matter personally.”

For once, Rhea and Byleth find themselves united in surprise. 

“You’re attending to this personally?” Byleth asks.

Seteth’s gaze cuts to her. “The shrine is placed within a graveyard containing the remains of Saint Cichol and Saint Cethleanne, their holy relics, and several other historical figures important to the faith.”

That didn’t quite answer her question. A silence ticks by until Seteth sighs and admits, “It is also where my wife was buried. I admit, I could allow the Knights to handle this themselves, but the matter is quite personal to me.”

“As it is to me,” says Flayn. Seteth scowls.

Rhea’s voice is gentle as she says, “And I understand your feelings better than anyone in this matter, Seteth. However, we have already stripped the monastery of all but a skeleton force. I fear that any further depletion of personnel would invite an attack, if not from the Western Church then from our as yet unknown assailants.”

“But—” Seteth cuts himself off. 

He has always worn his heart on his sleeve, this man. His disapproval obvious in his every glance; his brief moments of camaraderie; his polite scorn. Byleth has seen it all with such precision that she developed something of a soft spot for him, this one trustworthy man in a den of snakes. 

She sees the open emotional wound before he can cover it. She sees the hopeless grief of a wife lost, feels the anger of her grave being desecrated; the betrayal and the pain. 

And Rhea made a good point minutes ago: the Western Church never listed any complaint against the Central Church. They merely attacked. And over what? The death of a confessed traitor whose actions led to the murder of countless innocents?

If only she could ask them… 

“We have to help him,” Sothis whispers softly. “He is ours to defend.”

<<What is that supposed to mean?>>

She expects Sothis not to know. Instead, the girl is silent.

“We can’t just let them do this,” Flayn is saying. Her voice cracks with heartbreak. “They have no right! The Shrine is our—”

“Flayn,” Seteth snaps. “Mind yourself.”

“No! This isn’t right!”

“We’ll go,” Byleth says, before their argument can go on further.

Three pairs of pale eyes turn on her in surprise. She straightens her shoulders and looks first to Seteth, then to Rhea. Rhea is the one she has to convince.

“My class can handle this. No need to strip the monestary’s guard force.”

“Yes,” cries Flayn. She clasps her hands together. “See, brother? I and the Professor shall both be there!”

“I’m not sure…” says Seteth. 

But Byleth isn’t done. Ignoring them, she says to Rhea, “However, I would like to make one request.”

Seteth crosses his arms. “Oh? And what might that be?”

“I want to try talking to them. I want my students to hear their side of things, and judge matters for themselves.”

Seteth’s scoff is incredulous, but the look Rhea is giving Byleth cuts straight to her soul. Not for the first time, Byleth feels as though the woman is measuring her; weighing something in her mind. And then, Rhea smiles. 

“Of course. If you can resolve the matter peacefully, that would be best. Though you should keep in mind the guards they most likely killed to take the shrine.” She pauses, giving Byleth time to consider the point. Then, “I am curious, however. If you judge them to have a valid cause, what will you do?”

What would she do? Turn against her own students? Leave Flayn and Seteth to die at the hands of the Western Church? 

No. Byleth doesn’t think she could do that. Thank the Goddess she was raised as a mercenary.

“I will finish the job on your behalf, regardless of my opinion, assuming we cannot settle this without violence,” Byleth says. “But after that, if I believe their cause has merit, I will leave the monastery.”

“I see. Then I shall hope it does not come to that.”

Byleth looks Rhea in the eyes, trying to gauge the meaning in those words. Would Rhea allow her to leave, or had her father been right all along? Was she making a mistake right now, like she had with Leonie? If she was, this one would be far more costly.

She truly cannot tell.

Though she had considered allowing this all to stand—letting her chips fall where they may after such a conversation, it’s that small thread of paranoia insisting she’s pushed too far that decides Byleth’s course of action.

“Is it time?” asks Sothis.

“Yes, I believe so,” says Byleth.

“What?” asks Seteth, before the world goes strange and skewed. His words retract, stars pop into existence and fade. The vastness of space stretches around Byleth’s skin, thick and sticky, until it breaks.

Their conversation goes much more smoothly the second time around.

#

“I am not sure about this,” Sothis mutters as Byleth exits the audience chamber. 

_ <<I’m going to ask Seteth about the Western Church’s demands on our ride over.>> _

“I am aware. That is not my concern, precisely. It is more… hm. Perhaps it is time for us to look through Jeralt’s office?”

Byleth pauses just before she reaches the stairs. She’s been avoiding her father’s old office. Sothis knows this, though they hadn’t spoken about it at all since his death.

_ <<Why?>> _

“Do not ask stupid questions! You know why. You cannot avoid this forever, and they will go through his things eventually. Do you wish to return from this trip and find Rhea with—with whatever he left behind for you?”

No. However…

_ <<We need to prepare the students. We’ll come back later.>> _

“Why must you insist on avoiding the inevitable?”

_ <<Why must you keep secrets? Or did you think I hadn’t noticed your omissions and self editing?>> _

“The secrets I keep are for your own peace of mind,” Sothis snaps. Then, more quietly, she adds, “You know that, do you not? Deep down.”

With a terrible, gut-wrenching feeling, Byleth does. In fact, now that Sothis has pointed it out, she’s pretty sure that—

“Don’t,” warns Sothis. “Don’t think about it yet. We aren’t ready.”

And they aren’t. But neither is Byleth ready to face that office.

“Even if it offers answers?”

_ <<We don’t know what he left me.>> _

“Yes, we do. But go on, then. See to your students first if that eases your mind.”

The next several hours go by quickly. Byleth asks her class to gather in their workroom after dinner, then shares what details of their assignment were deemed appropriate. It’s met with the usual enthusiasm, though she catches Ashe looking a little green as he bids his goodnights. They’re set to leave at dawn, and everyone needs their rest.

She hangs back, fiddling absently with items on her desk, and waits for the room to clear. Once the students are abed, she’ll sneak back up to her father’s office and find his—

“Professor?” Dimitri stands on the other side of the desk, a concerned smile across his lips. “Are you quite alright?”

Was she talking to herself again?

Byleth didn’t think so. She glances around the room and catches sight of Leonie’s back as the girl leaves the room. Other than Dimitri, she was the last one present. 

His eyebrows raise just slightly. “Perhaps it is unkind for me to bring it up, but you seem a little more preoccupied than usual. I thought, perhaps, well, that is... “

He clears his throat. “It has been some time since we last spoke.”

The tips of Byleth’s ears go hot. Dimitri isn’t referring to classroom discussion, of course. They speak often over the course of a normal day; shared meals, questions during seminars, and so forth. But ever since that night several months ago, when he’d come to her with a question of ethics upon the battlefield, they’d shared more quiet nights discussing similar topics. 

These talks weren’t scheduled but they usually happened once or twice a week, at least. Right up until her father’s death. She’d shut everyone out after that, including Dimitri. 

“You don’t have to, of course,” he was saying, “I just wanted to offer. In case you needed it.”

What can she possibly tell him, though? Byleth struggles to find words. They’ve come so easily all day and now they desert her? It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. 

And again, what could she tell him? Nothing about Rhea. Not about confronting the woman and rewinding time so her bluntness wasn’t remembered. Not about Sothis.

Though… if she could turn back one conversation, who was to say she couldn’t… 

“Are you certain you want to begin down this path?” asks Sothis, reproach evident in her tone. 

Simultaneously, Dimitri’s hopeful smile begins to dip. He takes a step back. “This was far too forward of me—”

“No!” Her hand is on his arm before she thinks better of it. Byleth flinches, retracting the limb immediately as she remembers herself, just hours before, lashing out at Rhea for a similar gesture. Then again, Rhea’s touch was somewhat more invasive than an elbow.

“No,” Byleth repeats. She shakes her head. “Please, don’t go. I—I do need to talk with you, actually.”

And there it is; that gentle smile that makes her stomach flip. If her heart could beat… 

“About Leonie,” says her traitorous mouth. 

To his credit, Dimitri’s only response is to blink rapidly and tilt his head marginally to the side. “Leonie?”

“Er, yes. That is, ah, did you see the bruising? On Felix’s face, I mean?”

“It was rather difficult to miss. Don’t tell me that was Leonie?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Hm. She’s better with that lance than I expected.”

If only that were the case. Unable to keep herself from wincing, Byleth shakes her head.

“Not the lance?”

“They got into a bit of a disagreement that I wasn’t quick enough to stop,” Byleth admits. “I think I’ve sorted it out for now, but the subject is likely to come up again.”

“I… see.” He didn’t.

Stepping around the desk to his side, Byleth sits against the edge and leans back on her hands, biding a moment of time to put her request into words. Dimitri will agree; of that she has no doubt. Still, it is a subject she finds difficult to breech. 

“I don’t think I’ve asked you directly, but what are your thoughts about crests?”

“Mm. That is a complicated subject.” Dimitri leans on the desk in kind. He lifts one hand to his jaw, rubbing it thoughtfully. “As you know, many of us here are plagued by the responsibility inherit of them. Others are marked by their absence preventing them from obtaining what should, rightfully, be theirs.”

“I understand the first, but what do you mean about that last bit?” She thinks of Sylvain’s brother. Yes, the man had been abused as a child, but that was no excuse to go to the murderous extremes he had displayed.

“This is just my opinion, of course?”

“Of course.”

“Take Ashe, for example,” Dimitri says, slowly. “He is intent on becoming a knight. That is quite possible thanks to his adoption. However, his adoption makes him Lord Lonato’s oldest surviving child. If he—or any of his siblings—merely had a crest they would be due to inherit all of Lonato’s lands and titles.”

“But they don’t. So… they’re penniless, again?”

“Not entirely. Lonato left a small bequest to each of them, which the heir—a distaff cousin—has found it appropriate uphold, though he would have been within his legal rights to ignore Lonato’s wishes given… how the man died.” 

Something in Dimitri’s tone draws Byleth’s attention. She glances him over, taking in the sudden firmness to the set of his jaw; the angry glint deep in his eyes. “After some deliberation, I take it?”

“Some deliberation,” Dimitri agrees, voice pitched lower than before to avoid being overheard. “And perhaps a strongly worded letter of encouragement.” 

Byleth smiles. “Ashe is lucky to have such a friend.”

“He shouldn’t need to be. He should be Lonato’s heir. His cousin knows that. If I were on the throne already—”

Dimitri cuts himself off with a small, disgusted noise. After a moment, he says more calmly, “Even if I were, Ashe would not thank me for pressing a lordship upon him, I think. Though he would make a finer noble than his cousin.”

“You didn’t say that to the new Lord Lonato, did you?” Byleth asks, suddenly quite concerned.

“Not precisely,” Dimitri replies. “Why?”

Unease stirs in Byleth’s heart. She isn’t entirely sure why. Something from earlier today, she thinks. Something she’d thought about the Western Church and Rhea. 

She shakes her head. “I’m not sure. It’s… been a long day.”

To her relief, Dimitri lets the subject go. He nods absently, and she feels his fingers slid on top of hers. As always, his touch sends a delighted shiver through her very bones. 

“So. What do crests have to do with—ah. She isn’t fond of nobility, is she? Leonie?”

“Not as such,” confirms Byleth. “Actually, you missed quite the miracle.”

“Did I?”

“Mm. Felix was showing restraint.”

Dimitri’s mouth goes slack with shock. “Felix? Our Felix?” 

“The one and the same. I had him putting her through paces while Sylvain offered technical advice. She didn’t take kindly to learning that Felix was holding back because he thought she couldn’t handle him at his best.”

“Was he correct?”

At Byleth’s disapproving look, Dimitri offers an apologetic smile. “I only ask to understand the situation. Leonie is skilled, but you’ve said yourself that Felix outpaced you on swordsmanship.”

“I was anticipating him driving that lesson home. Not to hurt her, but because Leonie strikes me as the sort who learns best through action when available. She needs to understand what she’s going up against. Instead, he told her she wasn’t equipped to hold her own against him, and she decided he thinks that way due to her lack of a crest.”

“Ah.” Dimitri is quiet a moment before he asks, “Do you think she had a point?”

“No,” Byleth says after a moment’s consideration. “Felix has never said as much to me, but while I could see him considering his crest a useful tool, assuming he considers it at all, I can’t believe he thinks his crest puts him above others.”

The corner of Dimitri’s mouth twitches upward, but to his credit he doesn’t laugh aloud. “I believe your assessment has merit. As usual.”

“I attempted telling her as much, but she isn’t going to believe me alone. Not about this. Of course, I also didn’t think it was my place to share any of your stories with her.”

“So we’re at an impasse?”

“Sort of. I was hoping you might speak with her.”

“Me? I have no problem with that, Professor, but my personal issues with crests pale next to many of our classmates.”

“I understand that. However, you are the Crown Prince. Your words have weight.” Byleth dipped her head and added, “And you’re the easiest to talk to.”

“Is that so?”

“I think so.” Byleth finds her gaze drifting over everywhere and everything except Dimitri. “And it could be easier because your side of things isn’t so deeply personal. I plan to ask Ingrid… and maybe Mercedes as well, but I can already see why they may not care to talk about it with a relative stranger.”

“Perhaps not, but I find I am actually quite curious to speak with Leonie on the subject.”

“Are you?”

Dimitri hummed thoughtfully. “You’re aware that Ashe and I still have some trouble, yes?”

“No,” Byleth replies, honestly surprised. “You two seem to get along remarkably.” 

It’s especially alarming given Dimitri’s ringing endorsement only moments ago.

“I didn’t mean that we dislike one another,” Dimitri confirms. “At least, I would like to consider him a friend and confidant. However, Ashe has expressed his… discomfort with the idea of being informal with me. Though he is technically nobility by adoption, he considers himself to be, in his own words, a ‘mere commoner.’”

“I see.” And she can, now that Dimitri has brought it up. Ashe was kind and thoughtful around Dimitri, the same as he was with everyone. He was also very formal in his cheer, wasn’t he? Particularly when aimed at Dimitri, Felix, and Ingrid. Annette and Sylvain were no less nobility, but Ashe seemed far more at ease with them. Perhaps it was their attitudes? Ignatz and Bernadette were still so new to the group it was difficult to decide if he treated them any differently.

“Leonie doesn’t strike me as the type to defer, though,” says Dimitri.

Byleth laughs softly. “She certainly is not that.”

Her breath catches as Dimitri’s fingers close around hers. The gesture is gentle, but the sort that demands attention. She looks up to find him watching her with an expression of… of… she doesn’t know what, but it makes her nervous in the best and worst of ways.

His voice is soft and teasing when he says, “I’m still not quite used to you laughing so much. But it’s good to hear.”

They’re still smiling at each other, quiet and lost in their own thoughts, when a stray group of students pass by the open classroom door, laughing and chatting loudly. 

They yank their hands apart, each sliding an inch or so away from each other as though scalded. 

“Byleth,” Dimitri says so, so quietly that it could have been her imagination, assuming she had one. But whatever he planned to say next, he seems to think better of it. Instead, Dimitri stands and bows shortly to her. “We should probably say our good nights, if we’re to ride tomorrow. Yes, Professor?”

She clasps her hands before her, trying to forget the warm pressure of his fingers around hers, and nods her head. Once again, it is an effort to make herself speak. “Yes. Goodnight, Dimitri.”

As he walks away, Sothis whispers softly, “Perhaps I was wrong.”

Byleth doesn’t ask for clarification. She doesn’t need it. But she also cannot afford to consider such a possibility right now. There are things to do, and decisions to make. Besides, if she does decide to leave the monastery, she will be leaving all of her students, including Dimitri, behind for good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oy vey, this chapter. It became something a bit more than I anticipated, and yet I'm happy with where it's going. Hopefully you all are, too! I finally snuck some more overt Dimileth in here. ^___^ Also a return to more of the moral and philosophical questions I began with. 
> 
> I did up the chapter count, after all. Given how long these conversations ran, I definitively anticipate four chapters, now.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team arrives at the Shrine of Cichol. The dangers of playing with time catch up to Byleth as a flubbed conversation with Seteth spoils her plan to speak with the Western Church. Now, she must turn to less savory methods if she wants to find answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who haven't seen, What happens between Chapter 2 and chapter 3 is documented in the "Through Hardships Unnumbered" prologue and first chapter, but should not be necessary to this fic.

They were on the road long before the sun was up in earnest. Travel rolls and skins of warm tea were passed around their traveling cart as the group descended along the winding mountain trail into the northern coastal valley. The town beneath the monastery was quiet as they passed through, and so far they’d seen no trouble from bandits or otherwise. 

Thank the Goddess. Byleth knew from experience that she could handle an ambush in her current state. That didn’t mean she wanted to. Besides, she was less certain of her students.

Of the group, Annette, Leonie and Ignatz were surprisingly chipper this early. The rest are still relatively quiet; many are yawning. Dimitri, in particular, looks nearly as poorly rested as Byleth, with faint, purple-grey pallor beneath his eyes and somewhat unkempt hair.

_ He must have been in the library again _, she thinks, and wonders what he could possibly still be searching for. Sothis doesn’t bother answering, though Byleth is certain the girl is awake. Sothis has been awake and mostly silent since they’d found Jeralt’s journal the night before. That’s fine. So was Byleth. Every time she tried to sleep, her mind wandered back to the things they’d read. 

And to the uneasy feeling of eyes upon her back… 

“Long night, Professor?” 

Sylvain guides his slender, light-weight mount up alongside the cart. His grin is a little too knowing and broad for a simple question. Though Byleth is still sharp enough to sense the weight of his words, she can’t figure out the trap. 

The boy’s gaze darts pointedly to Dimitri riding along the cart’s other side. Dimitri doesn’t seem to notice the exchange, stifling a yawn instead. Leonie, positioned beside Byleth on the driver’s seat, is far faster. She snorts.

“Wow. You didn’t strike me as a jealous type, Sylvain, given your famed treatment of girls.”

Sylvain colours. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means she has your number,” Felix drawls from behind them. Leonie glances his way, doubt written across her face. Whatever she sees, though, doesn’t seem to upset her. 

Unlike Sylvain. “You, too, Felix?” 

“If you don’t want to be called out for your behavior, maybe you should consider your actions once in a while,” Leonie shoots back. 

“Besides,” adds Felix, “Ingrid isn’t down here. Imagine what she’d have said.”

“I just asked the Professor if she had a long night! I was showing concern.”

“Mhm,” hums Felix as Leoni says, “Of course you were.” 

Giggling erupts from the back, sounding suspiciously like Mercedes and Annette. 

“I don’t know what any of you are talking about. I’m a perfect gentleman,” Sylvain announces, eyes roaming heavenward to where Ingrid and Seteth’s mounts glide in lazy circles around the party. Even from this distance, Byleth thinks she can hear the excited cries of Flayn and Ignatz, riding pillion behind pair, as both pegasus and wyvern perform dips in the air. 

Byleth sighs. She hadn’t wanted anyone flying their mounts. Rather, she’d hoped for the opportunity to speak with Seteth on their way to the graveyard. Couldn't do that when she was down here, and he was far above. But he’d been the one to suggest an aerial guard would minimize their risks on the journey, and he was right. Besides, both Flayn and Ignatz could use the flying experience.

“Professor?” 

Byleth jolts out of her thoughts to find most of her students watching her. Nothing seems to be wrong, though. The horses are still on track, and no bandits have come screaming out of the woods. But…

“Reluctant as I am to admit this, Sylvain might have had a point,” says Dimitri, “Are you feeling quite alright, professor?”

“I just--I had a bad night,” Byleth admits.

“Ouch! Dimitri, I thought better of you,” teases Sylvain.

Felix reaches a hand out of the cart to swat Sylvain’s leg. “Stop that. This is serious.”

“C’mon, Fee, it’s all in good fun.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that.”

“What? Fee? You used to love it.”

“No. I didn’t.”

As the two descend into their usual, friendly bickering, Ashe approaches from behind her. He squats behind the front seat, folding his arms across the back support. “Forgive me if this is impertinent, Professor, but you have been driving for quite some time. Perhaps I could take the reins? That might allow you a bit of rest.”

“You have experience driving a cart?” Leonie asks, surprised.

“Only a little.” Ashe blushes. “I was supposed to ride inside the carriages after Lonato adopted me, but I never really felt comfortable there. I used to ride outside with the driver, instead. He gave me a few lessons.”

“Oh,” says Leonie, seeming confused--and somewhat concerned. When Ashe responds with a curious tilt of his head she adds, with an uptick to the end that turns the statement into a bashful sort of question, “I didn’t know you were adopted?”

“Ah, yes. My birth parents died in the pox that took Grimard several years back. We were pretty fortunate, my siblings and I. Lord Lonato adopted us a few months after.”

This seems like an appropriate point to let herself out of the driver’s seat and their conversation. Quietly, Byleth stands and offers the reins to Ashe. He takes them, expertly changing seats with Byleth while the horses continue their way forward, unperturbed.

Leaving the pair to their conversation--Ashe explaining the brother and sister he’d cared for, and Leonie sharing her own experiences playing second-mother to her younger siblings--Byleth moves into the back of the cart with the rest of the team where Mercedes and Annette are still listening to Felix and Sylvain squabble, while Bernadette hides beneath a blanket trying not to hyperventilate. Dedue sits at the very back, watching the road behind them for dangers.

It’s nice actually, listening to them all getting along like this. So nice, in fact, that Byleth barely notices herself being lulled by the gentle rocking of the cart and the warmth of the others pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with her. 

“So tired,” murmurs… Sothis? That didn’t sound like Sothis’ voice, but it was something the girl would say. Byleth is too tired to be confused, or think too deeply. Her cheek finds Dedue’s shoulder, and then she is gone. 

#

She must have been more tired than she originally thought. With no nightmares to plague her this time, Byleth wakes to find she’s slept through most of the journey. Moreover, she’s slept through Dedue exchanging places with Dimitri to allow _ him _ some rest as well. They each flush scarlet when they wake leaning upon each other for support. No one looks either of them in the eye, or comments on the situation, but Byleth is somehow certain she’s being watched as they stop to prepare for their assault. 

They leave the cart at a farm a half-candlemark’s walk from the shine. Calvary wouldn’t be useful on the sandy beaches, or in the graveyard, and their arial support would only serve to curtail any advantage of surprise. With that in mind, they also left their mounts, though the farmer was far less sure how to handle a small dragon than he was either the war or cart horses. Even the pegasus he seemed more-or-less at ease with.

After paying the man for his trouble, the group headed off through the forest by way of a foot-trail used by locals and ignored by pilgrims. Byleth can tell how little traffic comes this way thanks to the overgrowth and the obvious, recent signs of animal use. But it hadn’t been the farmer who suggested this route; it had been Seteth.

Of the group, only four are managing well with the terrain: Byleth, Seteth, Leonie and Flayn. Ashe is close, but even he finds the occasional branch to snap. Because of this, she and Seteth have put a small distance between themselves and the students. They’ll be the first to spot danger, but it also gives Byleth the idea for an opening to that conversation she’d wanted to have earlier. 

“Come this way often?” 

Seteth’s answer is distressingly vague. “It is considered a most holy place. A pilgrimage is held every ten years.” 

“Well, yes, but is this the way you normally visit?”

His glance is strange, questioning. “No. Pilgrims normally stick to the main road. That is why I suggested this path; there’s a high probability the invaders will not know of it.”

Was that reproach in his voice? Byleth thinks it was, but can’t decide why. Based upon their map, they are still quite a distance from their destination; too far to expect sentries. 

“I wasn’t talking about holy pilgrimage,” Byleth says, evenly. “I meant when you visit your wife.”

She doesn’t expect his sharp intake of breath, or understand the way he voice drops, dangerous and low. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Byleth frowns, casting him a bewildered look. “Your wife? I’m sorry if it’s a sensitive subject, but you said yesterday—”

She pauses, cutting herself off as she replays the events back in her head. He _ had _ told her it was his wife’s grave, right? That was part of why he was so bent on seeing to this personally.

“How forgetful,” Sothis mutters. Her voice is distant, but no less cross. “He said that the first time. Not the second.”

Oh. _ Oh _ . Byleth had erased the reality where he’d admitted his true reasons. Instead, in this reality she’d rushed to offer her help; played the ignorant, subservient fool so well she hadn’t _ bothered _asking the right questions.

“You must have misheard me,” Seteth says in a tone like the thinnest sheen of ice across a river. 

“I must have,” Byleth agrees. Hiding her confusion is difficult, now. It hadn’t seemed like such a big deal when he mentioned it yesterday; it was entirely understandable. Why was he acting so defensively, now? Surely, there was someone at the monastery who could have let that drop. 

_ <<Should we go back? Have you rested enough—>> _

“Going back is how we made this mistake in the first place,” Sothis points out. Then she sighs. “We can try again. But if something untoward happens in the coming battle, I don’t know that we’ll be able to correct it.”

The coming battle. Byleth’s entire plan was to find a way to avoid senseless deaths. But that wasn’t going to be possible, now. Not today, anyway. Without Seteth’s agreement, she couldn't risk trying to speak with the Western Church first. Opening the battle by announcing themselves and asking to parlay would only unsettle her students and cause friction between herself and her allies. Friction could lead to deaths on _ their _ side of the battle. 

However, if she rewound this conversation, didn’t alienate Seteth, and he _ still _ didn’t agree to allow her to try parlay not only would the outcome be the same, but she’d be wasting a valuable resource in the process. 

And then there’s Sothis’ warning to consider. Is this the sort of thing she _ truly _ wants to make a habit of? Manipulating everyone around her by testing the waters and going back, again and again, until she gets it “right”? 

Sure, maybe everyone would live, but did that justify treating them like puppets in her theatre? 

It’s an uneasy question.

As Byleth scrambles for a solution, she is surprised by Flayn suddenly appearing at her other side. The girl’s voice is cheery but soft enough not to be overheard by anyone other than three present. “I do not believe I’ve thanked you for assisting with this venture, Professor.”

“It’s the least I can do.” 

“Perhaps. Still, I appreciate your understanding.” 

“My understanding?”

Flayn smiles serenely at Byleth, the very picture of innocence. “When I told you about mother’s grave yesterday. After your meeting.”

After the meeting Flayn was part of, the girl means. That had happened the same as the first time around: Flayn followed Seteth into the audience chamber demanding to be taken along, Rhea had her close the doors, they explained the problem and Byleth suggested her students. But Seteth had never been coerced into admitting it was his wife’s grave, and Flayn certainly hadn’t volunteered the information then or after.

What—? 

“Flayn,” Seteth sighs. He still sounds aggravated, but he’s now found another target. An utterly inexplicable target.

“He is worried you will think us improper,” Flayn said, as though this were both amusing and something of a secret.

“Why would I think that?”

“This is hardly the time for such questions,” Seteth interjects. But his shoulders, which had gone rigid, are relaxing again. He almost seems apologetic as he meets Byleth’s gaze. “Please, Professor. We will speak when this is done and I… when this is done.”

Damn. Another opening closed down. Still, Flayn’s intervention had helped Byleth recover some ground. Why, though? That was almost more unsettling than the rest of it. What was so terrible about them burying someone in a graveyard?

Focusing on that question wouldn’t help her solve the bigger, quickly approaching problem, however. The way Byleth saw it, she had two options: press her luck to broach the subject bluntly with Seteth, even after she’s aggravated him, and knowing full well that he’d been against the idea when she suggested it yesterday, or… or what? Time was running out. They’d run into sentries soon enough. 

Hm. Sentries. Yes, that was a solution, just not a pleasant one. There would be deaths. But, at the very least, those deaths wouldn’t be on her side. 

Heavy as it leaves her heart, Byleth has to admit it’s the best answer she has. If she tips Seteth off to her questions of the church that would certainly get back to Rhea, completely negating the point of erasing their previous discussion from the others’ minds. And, as Rhea pointed out, these men had already killed the guards standing watch over the graveyard. No matter what their reasons are, they aren’t any more innocent than Byleth herself. 

Fine. All that’s left is to put some distance between herself and the group. She wants to go alone. But she knows better. Not only would going alone be dangerous, it would be suspicious. 

She takes stock of the others around her. Ashe is doing well, and he was once a thief. Leonie is as silent as the huntress she used to be. Hm. There’s still her worries over Leonie’s combat viability to consider… but if the girl is using a bow, instead of a lance, perhaps she’ll be less inclined to charge forward indiscriminately.

Byleth raises her voice so those behind their front line can hear. “Dimitri.”

His quickening footsteps--heavy and tripping awkwardly through the underbrush--announce him coming up behind her before he answers, “Yes, Professor?”

“I’m taking Ashe and Leonie ahead to find and eliminate any sentries before the rest of you arrive. When you hear our signal once, I want you all to slow and double-down on the stealth. Stop when there’s only two trees left between the front line and the forest edge, _ or _ when you come in sight of the graveyard. Do you have that?”

“I do. But what is the signal?”

Byleth glances around. At the sound of their names, Ashe and Leonie had moved closer. They each catch her eye to indicate she has their full attention. She whistles a quick, four-note tune that sounds almost like a bird song. 

When she points to each of them, her two scouts repeat the signal back to her. “Good. Now, if you hear that signal twice in succession, that means stop and hold.”

“And what is the signal to attack?”

“Screaming.”

#

As the least experienced of the three, Ashe hangs back behind Leonie and Byleth to guard their rear. They quickly outpaced the group, despite their stealth. Ashe had a light touch, and the girls had each been raised in similar enough environments that this forest might as well have been a homecoming. 

The last time Byleth had been out this way with the Company they’d been guarding a merchant caravan heading to a port just up the coast. It was strange. She hadn’t been aware there was a graveyard out here, much less a shrine. Then again, why would she? Jeralt so hated anything to do with the Church.

She swallows back the anger and disgust. She hadn’t read enough of her father’s journal to be certain where his distrust came from, but she knew now that hadn’t been the only thing keeping him away. Or maybe it wasn’t distrust at all. Maybe it was just fear. Fear of Rhea, sure. Fear of being found. Fear of Byleth. 

Maybe he thought the Church would trigger something inside of her, turning her from his little girl into something… else. 

If so, he would have been right.

They find the first scout two breaths after Leonie spots the ivy-covered wall marking the graveyard’s perimeter. The man is middle-aged and pockmarked, and dead before he understands what happened. Byleth spares no thought for pity as she wipes her blade clean on her pant leg and returns her knife to its sheath. 

She wants to speak with the leaders of this band, sure. That cannot mean allowing their underlings to kill her students. No matter Dimitri’s philosophizing, unattended prisoners on a battlefield are an open invitation for knives in your back. 

She sends Ashe up a large oak a few paces behind the treeline. This time of year there’s still enough foliage to hide his location so long as he’s still and quiet. He’ll watch for the others, and signal them to slow when they get too close. 

Leonie ghosts behind Byleth as she creeps along the wall toward the distant corner. 

Something about this place feels strange, though Byleth cannot put a finger on why. Perhaps it’s the quiet. Or maybe it’s that the wall surrounding the cemetery is tall and solid, with capstone bricks etched in a pattern that’s familiar to Byleth, though she can’t place the design. 

Not the time to worry about such things. She’ll come back to it later.

Upon reaching the corner, Byleth stops to listen. Thanks to the now-deceased scout they know there are people here, but she hasn’t yet heard anyone else. What she hears now is… Birdsong. Wind. A distant crashing of ocean waves. Leonie’s faint breathing right behind her. 

Ah! There. Voices. 

Soft at first, then with rising clarity as their owners move closer to the girls’ position. 

“...really think we can trust them?” 

“I’d sooner trust a monster left alone in a nursery. No. If they’re willing to dispense with one church, they’re willing to dispense with all of us. Mark my words: they believe they’re the ones using us.”

“And you’re OK with that?”

“Isn’t my call to make, is it? The Bishop says this is the right play, and I trust _ him _. We just need to make sure the relics stay in the right hands.”

“Wish I could be that blasé about it.”

“Yeah? Seems pretty simple to me. Shut up, do what you’re told, and put your faith in the Goddess.”

“Don’t be an ass. Hey! You three; break time’s over—”

The voices become slightly muffled as the pair venture inside the walls. A moment later, a rhythmic pounding of metal on stone breaks through the air. Byleth counts slowly to three, then peeks her head around the corner. 

From this angle she can see the entrance to the cemetery grounds a few meters behind her, framed by two columns. Three stone steps serve as a threshold, leading directly to a dirt path splitting in two directions. To the north, the path curls back around the graveyard’s opposite end to connect with the pilgrim’s road. Directly east, the path transforms into water-worn steps descending from the short ridge to the narrow strip of beach below. 

Three small rowboats lay halfway up the sand, watched over by an armed guard. Four more guards sit at a campfire nearby. Fishing gear dominates the campsite, and preoccupies the men stationed there. Further down the beach are another five around a similar fire, surrounded by a collection of tents. 

A rather large company to guard a simple shrine, and most of them are robed; likely mages.

Byleth shoos Leonie backward, following her around the corner and out of sight should the beach-guards bother looking their direction.

They need to find a path into the graveyard without being spotted either by the men on the beach, or the people inside. But first… Byleth frowns. There aren’t enough guards on active duty, are there? One behind the cemetary on his lonesome, one at the boats. 

Perhaps the group didn’t expect an attack, but even so the security seems too lax for the number of people. It was possible they’d missed a guard in the forest, but Ashe hasn’t signaled for help. 

Leonie jerks her chin toward the forest, mouthing the question, “Back?”

Byleth shakes her head. Trusting Ashe to handle himself, she moves around Leonie and down the wall in the opposite direction. From the far corner she can see down the main road a fair ways before it turns inland at the thinner side of the forest. Is something moving out by the curve—? 

Leonie jerks Byleth down into the tall grass by her elbow.

Pebbles drizzle like rain from above. An archer stands on the wall, right over their heads. If either she or Leonie had been any taller they would have been spotted. As it is, she holds her breath until the man turns carefully and walks back toward the road.

Damn. They must have lucked out during their initial approach, accidentally timing it while the archer was at the opposite end. 

It wasn’t likely she’d be able to get over the wall with that guard walking it. Even if she could take them out, the men inside were sure to notice if they went missing. Attempting to lure the archer _ off _the wall would only make it more likely for them to alert the others. 

So… what then? They could move their main force up to the cemetery entrance and wedge themselves on purpose between the beach and graveyard. With the healers in the middle, such a move would hurt, but it probably wouldn’t kill them. 

That tactic meant Byleth wouldn't be able to talk to anyone inside, or spare them long enough for questions; not with Seteth there to see. 

Ashe’s signal sounds behind them. A scuff of boots on stone from above; approaching footsteps. The archer heard and is coming to investigate.

That--that is not good. The woods are thin enough that Byleth can see a few of her students through the trees. They’re trying to be stealthy, but their lack of experience with the terrain and the archer’s height advantage aren’t a good combination. 

The plan forms in the space of a breath. It isn’t a good one. It’s the only one she has. 

As the archer approaches, Byleth turns to Leonie and hisses, “Get ready.”

There’s no time to be sure Leonie is. Bylteh coils herself into a crouch and springs upward--not for the top of the wall, but for the archer’s belt.

She grabs the leather strap and plants both feet against the brick, absorbing some of her impact and using it to flip her captive unceremoniously over the edge. Her momentum and his weight drag him over the edge. barely as time to yelp before they land--Byleth’s knees planted in his crotch and his head into the stone with a sickening crack. Something broke. Nothing pleasant.

To her horror, the man is still alive. He moans faintly, before Leonie moves in and slides her knife into the pulse of his neck. The girl’s face is grim when she faces Byleth. “Just like a deer,” she murmurs, though there’s no feeling to the statement.

Just as Byleth suspected, the man’s disappearance has drawn attention. Already there are cries of alarm are rising from inside the graveyard and out on the beach. They only have a few seconds. 

“Find Dimitri. Have him form a defensive line just inside the forest, close to the cemetery steps. Don’t give up the advantage of the trees.”

“What are you—?”

“Trust me.”

To Leonie’s credit, the girl nods and dashes into the woods. Byleth stays put, perched atop the corpse, until she sees a few of her people moving through the trees in the direction she indicated. Then she jumps up and darts around the corner, moving along the backside of the cemetery wall. 

It feels wrong using her students as bait. But if this pays off, it will have been worth the gamble. Right?

#

The first scream is hoarse and deep-throated; too deep to be any of her students. Byleth takes a split-second to be grateful, then backs away to get a running leap at the wall. Now that the cemetery inhabitants are preoccupied with the students, she should be able to get over without distraction. It helps that whatever that pounding noise was, it hasn’t stopped.

Inside, Byleth finds three people standing in a loose formation around the headstones, facing the cemetery gates in varying stages of panic. Three more are positioned in a line before a stone edifice erected parallel to the adjacent cemetery wall. It looks something like small, elaborately carved house, but where there ought to be a front door is a wide archway filled with once-solid slab of stone. That stone now as a fair hole carved into it, that’s growing bigger with every swing of the workers’ pickaxes.

“You two, get out there and help them,” orders a man in robes not unlike the monks at Garreg Mach. He shoves a thin, nervous-looking woman toward the gate. “The rest of you keep working. We have to get inside that shrine!”

The woman pauses just outside the gate. Her hands move in an arcane pattern that falters as her shaking fingers break the patterns of the spells. The other person the monk indicated steps up behind her, saying something. 

It’s clear the monk is their leader. He paces in the middle of the graveyard casting anxious looks between the gate and the workers. 

He’s probably a caster, she figures, but the workers are just grunts. That makes all four of them lower priority. 

Though it pains her to do it, Byleth can’t let the other two casters get a spell off. Not only because their targets are her students, but because she’ll be overwhelmed if all three come at her.

She drops the man first, still standing behind the woman as though he’s instructing her. Byleth’s heart gives a painful little squeeze as the woman pales, jumps, screams over the body of her friend falling behind her. 

But Byleth isn’t the one who kills her. An arrow slams through the woman’s throat, cutting off her scream, just before Byleth’s sinks into her eye. 

There’s no time to wonder who beat her to the punch. The monk bellows furiously, rounding on Byleth--who is all alone atop the wall. 

Just as she thought, his hands flick in a practiced gesture. A red spiral swirls into the air between his palms, resolving into the diagram of a fireball spell. An arrow would take him out quickly, but Byleth doesn’t want that. 

Three seconds for the fireball to reach critical mass. 

One… She leaps onto a large headstone. The monk turns to follow.

Two… She leaps again, hitting the ground in a roll, the monk’s aim trailing behind her.

Three… She stops in front of the workers.

The fireball blasts forward, right on target. Byleth dives once more to the side. She feels a rush of heat pass close enough to singe her hair. 

Those workers, and the door they’d been hammering on, aren’t so lucky. A blast of stone dust and rubble mixes with the rising smoke as the building shakes. The men scream and writhe, flailing to put the fire out as it sears straight through to their bones. 

And now it’s just the two of them. Outside the graveyard, the students are still fighting. She hears Dimitri barking orders, but nothing to indicate they need help. Good. 

“You--you monster!” The monk gasps. He’s starting to rally from the horror of killing his own people. Golden light flickers at his fingertips as he lays the groundwork for another spell. 

Byleth’s arrow catches him in the shoulder, disrupting the cast. He howls in pain and rage, clutching the shaft protruding from his flesh. 

In that moment of distraction Byleth closes the distance between them. She grabs the mage roughly by the collar of his robe and drags him unceremoniously behind the little building where they won’t be spotted from the gate. 

Before he can rally, she slams him into the stonework and presses a knife to his throat. 

Anyone else would be panting hard and frantic in this moment. Not Byleth. This is her element. This is her home; the land in which she was raised.

Her voice is even, low and calm as she meets this man’s eyes. 

“The Western Church wants to go to war with the Archbishop. Why?”

“M-Monster” the man spits. “As though I’d tell you any—”

Ah. She forgot the incentive.

Byleth grabs the protruding end of the arrow and twists. The monk opens his mouth in a silent scream. She lets go.

“I can make this hurt.”

His face turns an ugly, blotchy shade of red. For a moment she thinks he’s going to refuse again. Then he mutters, “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Have you made no demands? Have you no complaints?”

The monk sputters out a laugh. “You can’t be serious, right? You don’t--are you with them? The church?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t know?”

“We’ve heard nothing from your side. That’s why I’m asking.”

“S-She’s an apostate. A witch. A corrupt serpent staining the heart of the church!”

“Fine. But why, specifically?”

Again, the man falters. It’s then Byleth remembers the pair speaking earlier. _ “Shut up, do as your told, and put your faith in the Goddess,” _he had said. He wasn’t the sort to ask questions, even of his own leadership. 

“You don’t _ know _, do you?”

“I know more than you, clearly. And maybe, if you keep me alive, I’ll tell you.” 

A reasonable request, but not possible in this situation. Byleth considers driving her knife into something non-vital just to prove a point. 

A scream. Sudden; short; female. One of hers? Which one? Byleth can’t tell, but her attention wavers for just a second. 

The monk drives his knee into her stomach. The air bursts out of her and she stumbles, slashing at his throat as she goes. Her blade catches flesh, but it’s only a scratch. 

His hands free, the monk twists crimson light into the air between them. Byleth catches herself, shifts the knife in her hand for stabbing and—

The light bursts into harmless firefly specks 

The monk’s eyes are wide and bloodshot.

Brain matter coats the arrow-point peeking through his ear.

Byleth notes all these things in the time it takes for the man’s lifeless corpse to sink to the ground. Then she follows the arrow’s path backward to the graveyard wall where Ashe stands, bow already nocked for another shot. Their eyes meet.

Another scream. 

Byleth turns and bolts for the gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so nervous about this chapter, y'all. I really hope it makes sense and you like it, though I suspect I may still be editing it in the months to come. At this point I'm posting things because I really need to move forward and stop obsessing. Expect tweaks to sentences and grammar, ect., though the content should remain the same.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle's done, and finally it's time for Byleth to get some answers. The closer she gets to the information she needs, however, the more complicated her life--and path--become.

The battle outside the cemetery has devolved into a standoff. On one side are the casters and archers from the Western Church standing along the beach. On the other are her students, still holding the forest as they’ve been ordered. Littered between the gates and the forest edge are the bodies of the melee fighters and the two mages she and Ashe killed.

Dimitri has their group’s casters and archers returning fire to the shore, where the monks knock aside arrows and dodge spells. Similarly, the shots fired at the woods are easily dodges and cast aside. It’s a war of attrition, but without cover the beach is going to lose eventually. That isn’t the problem. 

Someone else is yelling, but it’s not a woman. It’s—

“They’re behind us,” Felix shouts again, over a distinct clash of metal. 

Dimitri turns from directing Bernadette’s last volley and raises his sword just in time to deflect a blow from one of the hooded figures stepping from the shadow of a tree.

Byleth doesn’t waste time wondering where these enemies came from. She drops her bow on the blood-soaked path as she dashes for the trees, heedless of the squish of bodies beneath her feet. The Sword of the Creator is warm to her touch; it’s always warm, like it’s more an extension of her own body than a simple weapon. She is, as ever, repulsed and calmed by it. And here, in battle, she wields it with the same thoughtless ease as a dancer might a ribbon.

The sword sweeps out in an elegant arch, it’s blade segmenting along a whipcord as it extends forth. The first segment misses the man attacking Dimitri, but the next three carve a trenches in his flesh from thigh to collarbone. 

To his credit, Dimitri doesn’t seem bothered by the gushing hot blood staining his front. No sooner has the Creator Sword’s blade withdrawn is he moving forward, battle cry tearing from his lips like a demon’s roar. He drives his sword into the stomach of an enemy, boots the man off his blade, and swings again, across the chest of a second man. 

Beyond him, Byleth sees Felix fending off another two. Leonie sprawls at his feet. For a brief, gut-wrenching moment she thinks the girl is dead. Then she sees Leonie’s hand move, inching toward a spear still clutched in the hands of a dead guard. There’s something clearly wrong if she can’t stand, but Leonie isn’t gone. Not yet.

Suddenly, Byleth’s path is blocked by man in heavy plate armor. He growls through his full-cover helmet and swings his axe for her head. 

Byleth darts to the side, bringing her sword up across the back of the man’s legs. The sound isn’t metal-on-metal—Byleth isn’t sure what the Sword of the Creator is made of, exactly, but it isn’t a material she knows. Still, the impact generates a cacophony that deafens everyone around them. 

The man stumbles more from the impact than anything else. He rounds for a second strike only to stumble again as another arrow sinks between the joint of his breastplate and shoulder guard. 

Without bothering to look, Byleth shouts, “Ashe! Get to the archers and take out those casters. Tell Mercy to burn the boats if she can hit that far. We’ll keep them off your back.”

“Affirmative,” calls back a voice that isn’t Ashe, as she thought, but Ignatz. She doesn’t worry about that; not now, and not a moment later when there’s smoke rising from the direction of the beach, drifting toward them on the stiff salt breeze. 

Byleth makes another series of unsuccessful strikes as she dips and dodges out of the tank’s way. She thinks she’s being backed toward Leonie and Felix, but she can’t be sure without taking her eyes off her enemy. 

Around her, the now-familiar battle cries of Sylvain and Dedue sound somewhere in the mix of smoke and bodies; close, then far again. In the growing haze of smoke, it becomes difficult to see even that much. Something is wrong; Byleth is sure of it. Something more must have caught fire than just the boats. There’s a flash of Dimitri stabbing at her aggressor’s back, only to be blocked by another man coming between them, before the smoke overtakes them again.

The temptation to turn this all back rises, more powerful than ever. She’d have to go all the way back, too—to the very first scout they killed. The problem, however, is that she isn’t sure where the mistake was made or how to correct it. Where did this second, heavier force come from? How could they have missed them in the forest?

Something nibbles at the back of her mind, there and gone again. Too fleeting to catch, and Sothis isn’t offering any help. 

The next swing of the tank’s axe grazes her side; ripping through her coat and leaving a trail of fire along her skin. She’s bleeding for sure, but Byleth cannot stop to examine the damage. 

A heavy metal clang. A sharp cry of pain.

The tank stumbles toward her, lurches, and Byleth dives again to avoid him coming down on top of her. 

Dedue stands behind the man, planting his foot on the corpse’s backside to yank his heavy, armor-piercing axe free. He gives Byleth a nod, before his gaze jerks up and behind her.

She turns just in time to see Felix falter. There are corpses around him, but this last wave that came in seems to have concentrated on him and Leonie. And why wouldn’t they? She was down for the count. He was standing practically on top of her, clearly distracted in his attempt to protect his fallen comrade. An easy target.

Felix falters, and the enemy’s sword careens toward his exposed side. 

“No!” Byleth shouts, yanking the Sword of the Creator back in an eerie parody of her failed rescue of Jeralt. It’s going to happen again, she thinks nonsensically. The exact same as before. She’ll strike and that man, whomever he was, will appear to block her rescue— 

But her rescue isn’t even necessary this time.

Leonie grabs the lance she’d been after. She slams it upward, knocking the blow askew and driving the point of the lance deep into the enemy’s chest. Blood spurts, falling like rain over her, but Leonie doesn’t seem bothered. Her cry is one of desperation, and rage, and relief; commingled and terrible.

Felix falls, narrowly missing Leonie as he hits the ground directly beside her head. They’re both panting, exhausted and trembling. So is Byleth. So is everyone, she can see, as a sudden quiet descends upon the forest. 

“Count off,” Byleth barks in a voice gone hoarse from exertion and smoke.

They do, all of them; even Seteth, who she assumes was with the others at the treeline this whole time. Everyone is alive, though no one has gotten out unscathed. 

#

Annette and Mercy have enough stamina between them to put out the underbrush that caught fire and clear the smoke from the area. After a succession of fire-blasts from the mages below, even the well-watered, green wood had begun to catch. While it wasn’t likely such a fire would spread far, everyone was more comfortable not leaving it to chance. 

While they worked under the watchful eye of Sylvain and Dedue, who fared the best in that battle by far, the rest of the group retreated to the space between the ridge and graveyard wall. It would have been easier to take stock of their wounds on the beach, but no one wants to split up that far just yet. Not after being taken by surprise once already.

“I don’t need you to baby me,” Felix snaps.

Leonie, with a small, stoppered container of ethanol in one hand and a clean cloth in the other, glowers at him. “I’m not ‘babying’ you, I’m cleaning your wounds. Goddess above, can you just shut up and accept the help for once?”

“Right. I need  _ your _ help.”

“Yeah. You kind of do right now,” Leonie snaps. “Like you did a bit ago, you know? When you almost died?”

“ _ If _ I almost died, it’s because I was trying to save  _ you _ .”

“Yes! You did! And I’m trying to thank you, you  _ ass _ . Now quit whining and let me clean your back before it gets infected.” 

Felix still looks testy, but after a moment's hesitation he pulls his shirt off over head, grimacing all the while. The shirt snags at the cuts along his back, where blades bit partway through his leather breastplate. Leonie busies herself cleaning the cloth fiber and dried blood from his wounds, speaking only to inform Byleth that he isn’t likely to need stitches. That’s a relief.

Byleth got the story out of them a little earlier, while Flayn did preliminary cleanup on the worst wounds; namely, Leonie’s. She’d been near the backside of the group, sniping, when the fresh wave of troops snuck up on their rear, catching Leonie with a hatchet buried in her thigh before anyone was the wiser. Leonie was smart enough to leave the weapon alone during the fight, even though it was preventing her from standing up. She hadn’t bled out. That was the important part.

Felix went to her defense immediately; endangering himself to keep her from being trampled. Neither of them were quite discussing it in those terms, of course. He insisted it was just ‘a logical battle maneuver.’ It was nonsense, but Byleth didn’t feel like dismissing his instinct to help a teammate when he could, and no one else bothered to argue the point. 

With Felix being tended, Byleth takes another mental count of her charges. She’s done this several times over the past candlemark or so, reassuring herself that they’re all accounted for and among the living. It was far too close a call for her comfort; though there didn’t seem to be any point in attempting to try it over again. After all, they lived this time. They might not live through a revisitation. 

That was the trouble with this timey-wimey power of hers, wasn’t it? Sure, she could redo things. But there was nothing to assure that doing so wouldn’t screw something else up in the long run. 

Dimitri and Ingrid are dragging bodies to the ridge and dropping them onto the beach while Bernadette and Ignatz search among the deceased for anything of note or value. Seteth already agreed to read the final rites before the group moves the corpses below the tideline. Later tonight, when the tide rolls back in, the corpses will be carried out to sea. 

Byleth frowns. Ashe is pacing the wall, keeping a weather eye on their surroundings. Flashes of Sylvain and Annette’s red hair in the woods assure her of their locations. Mercedes and Dedue are harder to spot, but the others would have said something if they had trouble. Seteth and Flayn… 

“Inside,” says Ashe, softly, from above her. 

Though she doesn’t want to, Byleth forces herself to meet Ashe’s gaze. The look on his face is indecipherable. He’s the only one who knows what she was doing during that fight—the only person to see more than the collection of bodies left in her wake—and he hasn’t said a word about it. 

“Thank you,” Byleth says, and heads for the gate. They’ll need to have a chat sooner than later, but if he’s willing to let it go for now, she’s happy to wait until they can talk in private.

Seteth and Flayn are indeed inside the cemetery.

Byleth stops when she sees them, standing in front of the little building the Western Church had been trying to bust open. She isn’t sure what part bothers her most: that they’re clearly in the midst of a whispered argument, that they’re each holding a relic, or that the building’s door is once again solid, impenetrable stone. 

The building. The building definitely bothers her the most. It isn’t right, is it? Byleth searches her memory, which supplies a burst of dust and rubble, and a hole large enough for a person to walk through. That door was  _ open _ . Now it is isn’t. In fact, the entire building looks brand new; as though there’s never been a single scratch upon it.

She glances behind her to find Ashe watching her over his shoulder. He must have seen this, too. No wonder he’s holding his tongue. 

“Professor.”

They’ve noticed her; Flayn beams and Seteth softly smiles. He presses his free hand to his heart and bows. In his other, he clutches the unknown relic. As always with these weapons, Byleth’s skin crawls whenever she looks directly at the thing. Some strange instinct guides her hand back to touch the bone-white material of her own sword, relishing and loathing the chills it sends through her body.

“Thank you. I know this is… not the best time nor place for such words, given how things have been left. But sincerely, I thank you for this.” 

Flayn doesn’t bow, instead clutching a bone-pale staff to her chest with both hands. Though her demeanor is relaxed her posture is anything but. She clings to the staff as though afraid someone will rip it from her hands.

“Yes,” she says, “Thank you, Professor. I could not stand the thought of someone being harmed by—by these relics.”

Harmed. Byleth is ashamed how long it takes her to realize what Flayn means. That is part of why Seteth was right to come so quickly; personal reasons aside. Wasn’t that the same reason she and her students had been sent after Sylvain’s own brother? The relics were powerful and deadly, both to those they were wielded against and those who would use them. Individuals lacking the proper crest to control their power ran a serious risk of being consumed by the weapon; transformed into a mindless, bloodthirsty beast.

Byleth knew Flayn had a crest, but Seteth…

He catches the way Byleth’s eye shifts and says, in a hushed tone, “I have wielded the Spear of Assal before. It was a long time ago, but rest assured it is no danger in my hands.”

“The Caduceus Staff was—that is to say, my mother used it once,” supplies Flayn. “I will have no trouble either. Until Lady Rhea decides what to do with these.”

“Yes. It is clear we cannot leave them at rest any longer. Not so far from the monastery, at least.” Seteth’s attention turns back to the little building. He swallows thickly, pressing a hand to the stone. For a moment he looks so lost that Byleth feels a sudden, strong desire to hug him. 

Thankfully, Ashe chooses that moment to call out, “Professor?”

“Yes?”

“The fire is out. Everyone is ready if you are.”

Seteth takes his hand from the stone. “Yes. We should tend to the dead, then return to the farm before nightfall. We do not need to be wandering these woods in the dark.”

“You promised an explanation,” Byleth says as Seteth tries to pass her.

He pauses; sighs. “I did. And you shall have one.”

The message is clear: she’ll have one later. Always later.

Byleth tamps down on her frustration. She takes a moment to survey the cemetery in their absence; the places where the workers fell, and the piles of rubble strewn around that strange building. Rubble which indicates that her memory was correct because where else would it have come from?

Puzzled, she’s about to turn away when something else stops her in her tracks. Byleth’s gaze roames over the headstones as she tries to figure out that something was. What else, other than the building, has changed?

Nothing. Nothing  _ changed _ . But something is amiss.

Her name is called; Ingrid, this time. They must be waiting for her to finish this grisly little chore. Whatever is troubling her, she no longer has the time to mull it over.

But as she turns for the gate a second time, Sothis finally resurfaces. “The dates,” she whispers.

The dates. Byleth looks at the nearest headstone and frowns. 

This cemetery is old—ancient, even—but it’s well kept on the inside. Of course it was. It’s part of a sacred pilgrimage, is it not? The headstones are weather-worn, but clean, and many of their faces are yet legible. None of the dates are recent. Far as the eye can see, Byleth places no tombstone laid here within several hundred years.

“But his wife…?”

For this, Sothis has no answer, and Byleth only has more questions.

#

They keep the services short and simple. Byleth helps the strongest of their number finish the task of hauling bodies down below the tide lines. Once they’re laid where the water can easily pull them in—or the crabs can feast upon their flesh, which Byleth considers somewhat more likely—Seteth says a few words and recites some sort of prayer she’s never heard before. Most of the assembled know it, and chime in on certain parts. 

Then they depart; leaving behind the men’s gear either for pilgrims, for local scavenging, or even for use by the next group the monastery sends to secure the shrine. Whatever the case, it isn’t their problem. 

They travel by road this time, the better to keep their less forest-bound members from tripping over roots and foliage in the gathering gloom. As they round the far corner, where the road disappears back into a tunnel of trees, they come across another abandoned encampment, though this one is far more permanent. There’s a small waystation shelter that’s been ransacked, a mound of upturned earth that Byleth recognizes as a mass grave, and signs of a recently lit campfire.

Belatedly, Byleth remembers the movement she thought she saw in this direction just before the archer surprised them on the wall. That last group must have been waiting here, watching the road, where the graveyard’s normally stationed guards had been slaughtered.

Annoyed with herself, and Seteth for not mentioning this area to begin with, she allows Annette to take the lead with a fistful of fire to light their way, and falls back to cover the rear. 

Several minutes later, Ashe drops into step beside her. Their pace slows as though by agreement, until the group is several yards ahead, only visible thanks to their silhouettes obscuring Annette’s glow. 

“About what you saw—” she says at the exact moment Ashe says, “—Do you remember the—”

They each pause. Ashe gives an airy chuckle, so Byleth asks, “Do I remember what?”

“The Holy Mausoleum? Where we found the Sword of the Creator?”

“Yes.” Inside the tomb of Saint Seiros where there should have been a body.

“I… did something I shouldn’t have.”

“What?”

His voice lowers further still, until it’s almost a strain to hear him. “When you rushed out into the battle, I didn’t follow you. Not right away.”

It takes Byleth a moment to parse this. Then, with sudden clarity, she realizes what he means. “You looked inside that building?”

It’s only thanks to his pale hair catching what little light there is left that Byleth sees Ashe nod. “The Shrine, yeah.”

“And it was…”

“Empty. Sort of. Th-there were two sarcophagi, just like there’s supposed to be. I knew I shouldn’t. I knew it was wrong, but—”

“It’s okay,” Byleth says, gently touching his arm. “You aren’t in trouble, Ashe.”

“It’s not that. It’s… those were supposed to be the sarcophagi of Saint Cichol and Saint Cethleanne. But they were empty, just like Saint Seiros’ tomb. The only things inside were the relics.”

Both their attention returns to the group ahead of them, and the prominent points of Seteth’s new spear, and Flayn’s staff. 

“Tell me, have you ever heard of the Spear of Assal or the Caduceus Staff, before?”

“No, Professor. I didn’t know Cichol or Cethleanne had relics at all.”

Byleth frowns. These weren’t the relics of Cichol or Cethleanne, though, were they? Their names belied the place where they’d been laid to rest. She had no idea who Assal or Caduceus were, but it followed that these items had belonged to them. 

Then again, Sylvain’s lance was called “the Lance of Ruin.” They weren’t necessarily named for their original owners.

Still, why were those relics buried like the Sword of the Creator had been? The line of the Crest of Flames had supposedly died out, sure. Cethleanne and Cichol’s lines had not.

Furthermore, why did Seteth and Flayn carry those relics so possessively?

“Professor?”

“Yes?”

“About… that other thing…”

Tensing, Byleth waits. For what, she isn’t sure, exactly. Condemnation? Her actions—her carelessness—had led to Leonie being wounded, and Felix nearly being killed. 

But worse than that, Ashe had finally seen something she… hadn’t precisely hidden from them, particularly in the beginning, but which she doesn’t believe they ever had a full view of, previously. 

He had seen the Ashen Demon; the part of her that was her mask; cold and calculating; willing to torture for information if necessary. Because that was what she’d been doing, wasn’t it? Ramping up to torture a man, mid-battle, to get the information she wanted.

But all Ashe asks is, “Do you think the Western Church has a point?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I was hoping to find out.”

Ashe goes quiet after that, and Byleth doesn’t press him. Lonato, his adopted father, died due to the Western Church’s influence, after all. It would have been so much simpler if Byleth had tried to find a way to speak with Lonato instead of that stupid, unfortunate monk and his unquestioned loyalty. 

Even as Byleth thinks that, however, she realizes why it never would have worked. She’d gambled when she went behind Seteth’s back today. It was almost guaranteed he’d tell Rhea what happened, if he found out, but he wasn’t likely to throw a fit or act rashly. Catherine, who had been their Church entourage during the battle with Lonato, was far more impulsive. If she got the idea that Byleth was even  _ considering  _ questioning Rhea, Catherine wouldn’t hesitate to cut Byleth down.

Or,  _ try _ to cut Byleth down. 

Byleth knew she was no match for Rhea’s power, but she was willing to believe she’d stand a fair chance against Catherine. Not that it mattered, here and now. 

How much of that was her making excuses, though? She’d allowed a man who, by all accounts, had been a fair and unironically noble leader to his people, to die at the hands of the Church without even attempting to hear his side of the story. 

And then again, Rhea had a point. If Lonato truly had not attempted to parlay with the Church before attacking, was he actually as good a leader as Ashe wanted to believe? It was always the common people’s blood which was going to pay for Lonato’s ideals. He was the one who chose to spend that currency.

Her thoughts are still heavy when they reach the farmstead just after the moon has risen in full. Wolves howl in the distance alongside other, stranger beasts. Nothing stirs in the fields surrounding the farm, however, and the owners are happy to allow them use of their barn for the night. The extra coin probably doesn’t hurt. 

They settle in with Seteth’s wyvern against the back door of the barn, and stretch cloaks across the fresh hay in the loft for beds. Leonie doesn’t say anything, but Byleth thinks the girl is surprised when none of the nobles complain, either about the bedding conditions or the plain, if hearty stew the farmer’s wife provided with a skillet of cornbread. Dimitri even goes so far as the praise the woman’s bland cooking. No one has mentioned titles during any of this; it’s a fair bet the farmers haven’t even realized they’re hosting royalty.

Once they’ve eaten their fill, volunteers are taken for the nights’ watches. Friendly territory or not, no one feels comfortable with the idea of sleeping without a guard. To Byleth’s relief, Seteth volunteers for her shift without her having to press the subject. 

Theirs is the torturous middle shift that no one else wants. Byleth surprises herself by falling straight to sleep, and comes awake slightly disoriented at Mercedes’ touch. She accepts a cup of steaming, bitter tea softened significantly by farm-fresh milk, then wanders out of the barn to the log-turned-bench where Seteth is already waiting. 

His relic stands propped against the rim of the farmer’s well, one hand resting possessively on the gilded handle. With that, Byleth knows precisely what she wants to ask first.

“Who was Assal?”

“Someone long forgotten.” 

Byleth takes a moment to consider that; the words, yes, but also their tone. “But not by you.”

“My job relies on a better-than-average understanding of history and it’s myriad figures.”

“That’s a fancy way of saying ‘yes.’”

Seteth chuckles, though there’s little humor in it. “I am, perhaps, being a touch obtuse. Yes. I know who Assal was. I’m not certain why it would matter.”

He meets her side-long gaze in kind, each of them tensing a little. After her long, murderous day avoiding a confrontation with him, she’s doing a poor job of having a simple conversation. Still, her curiosity begs the question, “Would you answer me, if I explained?”

“Possibly,” Seteth says. “For a girl who asked me not to lie, you are making quite the habit of it.”

“I haven’t lied.”

“You haven’t told me the truth, either. And you allowed Flayn to lie  _ for  _ you.” He shakes his head, fingers tapping a ragged rhythm against his own mug of tea. “I’m still not certain what got into her head. As though I wouldn’t know when my own daughter—”

He cuts himself off, but the damage is done. 

His  _ daughter _ . Flayn is Seteth’s daughter. It speaks truth to a question she hadn’t even thought to ask. 

A cold chill runs up Byleth’s spine as the words from her father’s journal play in her mind. The parallel is uncanny. 

——— 

_ Hestia was Rhea’s daughter? I knew Rhea was special to Hes. I knew Hes was afforded more deference than anyone else here. I always chalked it up to our status. _

_ Her  _ mother _ . Hestia never told me. _

——— 

“Byleth,” Seteth is saying, “Please, if you would keep this between us? It is not something we speak of.”

“It isn’t my secret to tell. But can I ask why? What’s the point of the subterfuge?”

“It’s due to the unique blood she bears,” Seteth says, slowly. “You recall her abduction was specifically to get at her blood?”

Byleth does.

“That is precisely what we always feared. I suppose there’s a chance the ruse isn’t necessary, now, given the worst has come to pass. And yet we have dedicated so much time and energy towards maintaining it…”

Not to mention all the people they’ve lied to, Byleth thinks, but has the sense not to say. It would sound too bitter and, as he pointed out, she wasn’t precisely a fountain of truth, herself.

Yet, there’s something about that which doesn’t make any sense at all. How could pretending to be siblings hide their blood lineage? That were still related, it simply obscured the  _ precise  _ nature of the relationship. Unless they were adopted siblings—and they looked far too similar for anyone to assume they  _ weren’t _ blood related—their connection held true. 

Sothis, voice quite small and distant, recites a line that awakens butterflies in Byleth’s stomach. 

“It’s all part of this damn game we play, isn’t it? Hazing the lines between generations. Learning new relationships to each other. Pretending with everyone. Walking in and out of our own lives, so no one’s ever the wiser.”

It isn’t until she looks up to find Seteth staring at her, eyes wide and horrified, that Byleth realizes that wasn’t Sothis who spoke. It was her. 

“ _ What _ did you say?”

“My father wrote that,” Byleth hastily admits, resisting the urge to wipe her suddenly sweaty palms against her legs. Sothis hasn’t said a word to her in hours, and isn’t answering her distress now.  _ Why  _ isn’t she answering? “In his journal. He was talking about Rhea… and my mother.”

Seteth still isn’t saying anything. She doesn’t think he’s angry—more, he looks like some of the Company members used to when she said things they considered “odd” or “unnerving.” 

Her usual response would be shutting her mouth and walking away until she can pretend the incident never happened; that their reactions didn’t hurt. Instead, she finds herself asking, “Did you know her? They said she was a nun at the monastery. I wanted to ask Alois, but I haven’t seen him since the funeral.”

Quietly, with the air of a man who knows the answer, Seteth asks, “What was her name?”

“Hestia.”

“I see.” He closes his eyes and takes a slow, calming breath. The sort to which Byleth herself is inclined when she’s grasping with a particularly upsetting topic. She lets him have his moment, and when his eyes open again he seems more settled on something. “I did know her, in passing. Never for long, and not during her time at Garreg Mach.”

Before Byleth can actualize the question she wants to ask, Seteth follows, “What else did your father write in this journal?”

“Something that can’t be true.”

“Tell me. Please?”

And there— _ there _ is her opportunity, the one Byleth hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for. But the desperation is clear on his face, now; Seteth doesn’t just want to know, he  _ needs _ to know. Something about this information is vital to him. Good. She can use that.

“I will,” she promises, “On two conditions.”

This seems to throw him for a moment. He frowns, pulling away from her as thought slapped. “And what conditions might those be?”

“First, that you answer a question of mine, and second… that you do not tell Rhea I asked.”

She expects him to correct her informal reference to the Archbishop. That’s twice, now, she’s disrespected etiquette in front of him. Equally, Byleth expects him to fight her on this point. He has every other time something similar has been brought up.

But to her surprise, the rigidity to Seteth’s posture wanes. “I should like to hear the question before agreeing to answer it, but I can promise the latter, regardless. You are free to ask whatever you will, and it shall remain between us.”

Somehow, Byleth trusts that more than she would have blind commitment. “My question is: ‘Why, specifically, does the Western Church want Rhea disposed?’”

“That’s all?”

“I’d prefer an unbiased opinion,” Byleth admits, “But finding one is proving difficult.”

Seteth laughs shortly. “It would, at that. But certainly. That question is… well, not  _ simple _ , precisely.”

He hums and clears his throat. “The Western Church has long opposed the Central Church’s authority over religious matters. They, and the Eastern Church, were originally created as a means to better serve their distinct regions and those populations. This took stress off the smaller municipal organizations; allowing them to seek answers to complicated questions, or pursue justice within the Church purview without having to wait months on end for responses and rulings.”

That part Byleth already understood, but she remains quiet, allowing Seteth to unravel the answer as he sees fit.

“This worked well, at first. The schism you see today began around the time the Kingdom diverged from the Empire. The Central Church stepped in to acknowledge Loog’s claim of independence for what would become the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. This overruled a decision of the Western Bishop at the time, himself a descendant of the Adrestian royal line, directly denouncing Loog and his claim.”

“You believe his blood ties influenced his decision?” 

“The Archbishop did, yes,” Seteth correct. “Having read through the documents, I’m not certain I agree. However, I feel it’s unwise to overlook that detail.”

“What did the documents say?”

“The Bishop outlined his reasons for denouncing Loog as a—oh, how did he put it? ‘disgruntled warlord with delusions of oppression,’ I believe it was.” Seteth shakes his head. “He goes on to state that, while the Empire certainly had its flaws, allowing people to divide themselves by borders would only invite more war and strife in the future. That was his motivation, I feel; not simple loyalty to one’s bloodline.”

Byleth takes a moment to consider that. “I can see the logic, sort of. But— _ were _ they being oppressed?”

Seteth’s voice is almost teasing as he arches an eyebrow at her. “In my ‘unbiased’ opinion? Yes. I do believe they were. The thing about Empires, particularly one as long-lived as the Adrestian, is that they exist because they  _ consume _ . A nation does not become an Empire until it has conquered other, smaller nations that once laid in its path.”

“Faerghus was one of the consumed nations?”

“Yes and no,” Seteth admitted. “Loog was the selected chieftain of a group of loosely aligned ethnicities from northern Fodlan. They had a different name, long ago; so far back it hardly matters now. Under Adrestian rule they were stripped of their languages, cultures and identities. They held onto the scraps with their bare fingers.”

There’s quiet between them a moment. Seteth’s fingers stroke the Spear of Assal absently. 

“Sometimes,” he says in a strange, distant voice, “The mistakes one makes out of anger and hurt are so great their effects are felt for generations.”

Seteth shakes his head. “The point is, yes, they were being oppressed. Regulated to backwaters; taxed absorbitantly; condemned to lives of squalor or servitude. Loog managed a miracle when he pulled his people from death’s door to a successful rebellion. Along the way he gained allies among other disenfranchised parties who were tired of being held beneath the thumb of a government which refused to act in their interests.

“The Central Church agreed with their claims over their ancestral lands. In an effort to bring the war to an end, the Archbishop played arbiter and borders between the Empire and the Kingdom were drawn. In this manner, the Church stopped Loog’s forces from running roughshod over the Empire entirely, and beginning the cycle anew.”

“And then the same thing happened with the Alliance,” Byleth fills in. Seteth nods. 

“The Church—the Central Church—has been acting as a regulatory force for many centuries, now. We cannot support every claim brought against one government or another, of course. Sometimes baseless accusations are thrown. More often, the truth lies somewhere in the middle. But we do our best to mitigate matters for everyone’s benefit.”

Put that way, the Church didn’t seem such a bad idea. It was better, wasn’t it, having someone with a small though significant authority to curb the impulses of otherwise unchecked rulers? 

Still, that begged the question: who was responsible for watching the watchers? The Goddess?

“That doesn’t explain the Western Church.”

“Doesn’t it? They are angry that the Central Church has any authority over them. They believe they have the right to pull away from us, to form their own church free of the Archbishop’s oversight.”

“So, they’re Loog.”

“Are they?” Seteth sounds genuinely curious. “They were gifted their authority by the Central Church. They were not taken over by force, or cast into squallor. Rather, they were given their own territory with very little regulation—except in one or two significant matters.”

“So, you don’t believe they are oppressed, simply power hungry?”

Seteth sighs. “I understand why my take on the matter would seem—no. Why my opinion  _ is _ biased. However, there is something  _ you  _ don’t understand…”

He struggles suddenly, like he’s bitten into something sour or unexpected. Byleth waits, but all she gets for her troubles this time his Seteth finally managing to say, “However, I’m afraid I’ve exhausted what answers I can comfortably give. This is a matter I truly encourage you to take up with Rhea.”

So it’s just ‘Rhea’ now? Not ‘Lady Rhea.’ Interesting.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

Seteth chuckles softly. “She may come off very strict at times, but you, of all people, should not have any reason to fear her.”

“So you know, then?”

Again, he arches an eyebrow, and Byleth clarifies, “The other thing my father wrote in his journal.”

“I have a guess. I would still appreciate if you upheld your end of our bargain.”

Byleth’s mouth goes suddenly dry at the realization she now has to say this aloud;  _ say _ the words that have been echoing in her head since she read them the night before. 

She takes a long draught of her lukewarm tea to steel herself before the words tumble from her lips, hushed, and strange, and oh so terrifying in their implications:

“Rhea… Rhea is my grandmother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mother of pearl, this just keeps going. At _least_ one more, possibly smallish, chapter to go! I'm trying not to leave so many threads dangling, but there are nuggets being teased that probably won't get resolved in this particular section of the series.
> 
> I'm also reconsidering this fic's name? Is it weird to change the name? I thought this was going to focus more heavily on Leonie and Felix, and then suddenly ended up in really dark morality zone. Idk. we'll see.


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blue Lions return to the monastery but not all is well. As they discuss their recent mission and it's fumbles, Byleth must decide if it's time to come clean or keep her friends in the dark.

The next morning dawns bright and red as a wolf moon. A bad omen. Byleth rubs the grit from her eyes and climbs to her feet, feeling strangely detached from the world around her.

Already, the students are gathering their supplies and repacking the cart. From the open loft door, Byleth watches the farmer’s wife bustle out with a tray of bread bowls filled with a steaming morning stew of sausage and pepper gravy. Dimitri pauses the woman to thank her profusely, slathering her with so much praise the woman goes red as the sky above.

It’s a cheery, quaint sort of scene. Nearly domestic. Familiar, too. How many farms like this had the Company stayed at over the years? How many— 

Corpses. Burnt fields. Hollow-eyed children huddled in corners. Cries of pain, terror, and hurt. The feeling of her blade snagged in flesh. 

Byleth shakes her head so quickly she goes dizzy. She catches herself against the door jam until the world steadies again. 

“Tired,” Byleth murmurs, again in that voice which sounds so much like Sothis it nearly unseats her all over again. But she is tired. That’s why her thoughts keep returning to horrible things; events she witnessed, some she participated in. Guilt. Shame. And cold, numbing acceptance. This world is dark, and terrible, and so unlike… unlike… 

A heavy arm lands across her shoulders, tugging her against Sylvain’s side. His usual cologne has been replaced by a strong, heady aroma of blood, sea-salt, sweat and hay. It’s grounding; rooting her back to the present. 

“Those midnight watches are killer, huh” Sylvain asks, adjusting his arm more closely around her as she leans willingly against him. The touch is like electricity, revitalizing and leeching energy back into her very bones.

No one has held her in any significant way since her father died.

“No; that’s the point.  _ No  _ killers.”

His laughter is soft, edged with that strange tone he’s been getting lately, during the rare moments they’re alone; ever since the day he ‘jokingly’ threatened to kill her. She still isn’t sure he was joking. She’s still completely comfortable at his side. Why is that? 

“You’ve been spending way too much time with Alois, haven’t you? That was terrible.”

“I can think of worse.”

“Yeah? I don’t doubt that.”

As they fall quiet, Annette looks up from below and calls to them, “You’re missing breakfast!”

Sylvain nods to her, lifting a hand to indicate they’ll be along. She returns to eating with Mercedes, unperturbed, but Byleth notices Dimitri glancing in their direction. So does Sylvain.

“Uh-oh. Looks like the boy-toy noticed us.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop… what? Touching you? You’re the one who leaned in, here, Professor.” He pauses, then adds with a touch more confusion, “I have to admit, I expected you to pull away.”

“Stop  _ baiting  _ him. You were trying to get under his skin yesterday, and now you’re doing it again. I know this wasn’t meant for me.”

Sylvain’s voice drops to that same, strange tone again; low and serious, and trying to sound dangerous. Byleth isn’t impressed. “Yeah? And how do you know that?”

“A fair question. I guess you could just be deciding whether or not to push me out the window. You could, you know. I might even break something.”

She looks up to find Sylvain staring down at her with such sorrowful intensity that Byleth feels a little guilty. That guilt doubles down as he says, “I’ve been worried about you. We all have, really.”

“You have?”

“Yeah. You keep having these weird moments—er. Not that you’re weird, just—” He falters, tugging at the fur-lined collar peeking up above his chestplate in agitations. “Is it hot in here?”

Byleth chuckles faintly. There isn’t any snow, but the chilly, early-winter air is anything but that. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. Go on.”

His brow furrows deeper, but Sylvain obliges.

“I guess it’s sorta like when you first came to the Academy,” Sylvain said slowly. “You go all quiet and stare at walls, or the air, or through people. Like just now. Do you know how long you’ve been standing there?”

Byleth doesn’t. Now that he’s pointed out, the sun  _ is  _ higher than she remembers it being.

Sylvain’s voice drops again as he says, “I don’t know what Seteth said to you last night, but we relieved you guys you looked… almost upset? Just figured I’d check in. Make sure you weren’t, well, checking  _ out _ on us.”

“Checking out?”

“Yeah. Like,” Sylvain pauses, glancing behind them and below at the gathered students. His voice drops a bit. “Like Ingrid did. And Dimitri. And Felix.”

“What do you mean?”

“After Duscar. They all sorta… It changed a lot of things, you know? We went from peaceful alliance talks to the sudden murder of, hell,  _ half  _ the royal court? Overnight. No warning. No clear enemies—except one.”

Sylvain winces. “I don’t really mean to drag up all that again, it’s just something I noticed. I didn’t lose any blood there, but they all did. And for the longest time after I’d sometimes catch them just walking around lost; confused. Especially Dimitri. Which only makes sense, given everything he saw. He was either silent, or raving. Either way, it was scary. And Felix—”

He breaks himself off. Byleth recalls a few overheard conversations from these past few months; Glenn, Felix’s older brother, had been Sylvain’s best friend growing up. Sylvain might not have lost blood, but he’d lost someone important. And then he’d lost Felix, too, when the other boy withdrew completely in his grief, and came back a different person.

“Anyway. Point is, I don’t expect you to be the same after all this. I don’t think any of us do. But you don’t have to shut us out, again, either. Whatever it is you aren’t saying, or whatever you need to get off your chest… you got a lot of people here willing to listen. That’s all.”

Guilt again, all consuming and terrible. It isn’t the notion that she’s left them—no. Rather, it’s the unspoken  _ idea  _ behind his words that eats at Byleth’s conscience. “Shut us all out  _ again _ ,” he said. As though she’d ever fully allowed any of them inside to begin with. 

All the old excuses for her behavior are ready and waiting to shield her. The temptation to give in, to don her mask and pretend she hasn’t heard, is strong. Too strong.

Even as it slides into place, however, Byleth thinks of her father’s journal. How helpless and small it made her feel realizing how much he’d been keeping to himself. How much time she’d spent these past few weeks scrambling to find any meaning left in the world; for answers to questions she never should have had to ask in the first place. If he’d only told her.

Maybe this isn’t the same at all—Jeralt was family. But these people? They—

What  _ are  _ they? She calls them her students. And, sure, she’s taught them a few things. But haven’t they taught her a lot as well? She hates the way they defer to her; treat her like she’s ‘above’ them. She doesn’t  _ want  _ to be above them, she wants to be  _ part _ of them. Like friends. Like family.

Her gaze falls to rest on Flayn. Not for the first time, Byleth feels a sort of kinship between them. It’s stronger now that she knows the truth of Seteth’s overbearing ways. Jeralt had been smothering in his own strange way. And like Byleth, Flayn, too, just wanted to be part of the group. 

She’s so damn tired. 

“I won’t,” she promises, and even she doesn’t know if she’s lying.

#

The return journey feels shorter; like most homecomings. Their travel arrangements are much the same as before, except this time Byleth rides with Seteth so that Flayn can travel in the cart. She shares a secret smile with the girl as Seteth mounts up, then offers a hand down to help Byleth onto the wyvern’s back. 

Unfortunately, Byleth didn’t realize he’d kept the Spear of Assal with him until they’re in the air. The weapon is wrapped in linen and fastened to the Wyvern’s tack so tightly it may as well have been fitted there from the dawn of time. It takes about an hour of the skin-crawling, uneasy feeling building like a tangible presence against her leg before she looks down and realizes what her calf is pressed again.

It’s the closest Byleth has come to touching a relic that isn’t her own sword. Catherine was protective of the one she carried, and the Lance of Ruin, well…

Miklan had been the instrument of his own demise. No one here had any doubts about that. Again, the abuses rendered towards him did not justify the abuses he rendered upon others.

In the aftermath of his monstrous transformation, none among them had felt comfortable touching the relic. Not even Sylvain.  _ Especially  _ not Sylvain. But after a round of discussion it was decided that, given generations of Gautier crest bearers having wielded it and survived, he was the best equipped to return it to his father. A month later Lord Gautier placed it back in Sylvain’s hands for good. 

They never used it for training, or in any situation outside of monster hunts. The only reason it was with him now, carried in a special sheath upon his back, was that he didn’t trust it out of his sight. Not for his own sake, but for everyone elses’. 

Does he feel this too? Does he feel the ripples of disgust crawling across his skin; the pang of longing in his heart? Does he wonder at the warmth of the material? At the feeling of completion when it rests in his hands?

Byleth hasn’t asked. She’s glad of that, now, because the Spear of Assal is different.

Through the linen it almost feels as though the Spear of Assal is watching her. This is not the same, empty feeling she gets from the Sword of the Creator, but the notion of something alive. Sleeping, and not sleeping. Aware, but not aware. She knows at a base, instinctual level that if she were to touch it with her bare skin  _ something _ would happen. 

Whether that something would be wonderful or terrible is impossible to say.

The longer the journey continues, the more tightly she clings to Seteth. He puts up with it admirably; though maybe that’s just the wind whipping around them, stealing any chance for conversation. That  _ is _ good. Byleth doesn’t have the slightest idea what she’d say if he asked. 

#

Again, their trip to the monastery is mostly uneventful. The cart wheels into the courtyard proper at mid-afternoon, but Seteth waits until the gates are closed to begin his descent into the stables. Ingrid and her pegasus follow close behind. 

“I’ve never flown before,” she says to the concerned look he gives her. “I didn’t think it would be that…  _ That _ .”

“You did quite well, then,” says Seteth. He frees the bundled staff from its ties and Byleth takes a jerking step away from it.

There’s a moment where she’s sure he’s going to ask why. But following a long, measuring stare, Seteth merely presses his free hand to his chest and gives Byleth a short bow.

“My thanks, again, Professor, for your and your students’ help in settling this matter. I see no reason for us both to report to Lady Rhea… unless you would  _ like  _ to accompany me?”

“No, I-I’m good.”

That isn’t the answer he wanted. Byleth can read that clearly in the way his shoulders slump and lines crease around his eyes. It makes him look older than… 

Older. Come to think of it, how old  _ is _ Seteth? 

He doesn’t look old enough to have a daughter Flayn’s apparent age. And that, too, has been a source of mystery. Flayn may be naive about cultural things, but she was just as evasive about questions as her father. And Byleth.

But this isn’t the time for such questions; not only because he would never answer in front of so many witnesses, but because they’re back in the monastery. The newfound ease between them isn’t gone, but it has been tempered by these walls; this place; all the sets of eyes and ears upon them. 

“As you wish,” Seteth says. Then, lowering his voice, he surprises her by adding, “This may not be my place, but I do hope you will consider all we spoke of, and my suggestion. There is a place here for you, should you want it.”

His words aren’t precisely what she’d been thinking of earlier, with Sylvain, but they’re close enough to give Byleth pause. A place for her. A way to be part of something—truly a part, not simply tolerated or used or feared. That would be a welcome change, wouldn’t it? 

The carriage rattles up from street below. Byleth still isn’t sure what genius decided to put the stables up three flights of stairs, but there was no changing that set-up now. As ever, the sound is an absolute cacophony preving any further discussion within the vicinity which can’t be had at a shout. 

Seteth grimaces and Byleth… Byleth surprises herself by laughing. She nods at Seteth and waves him on his way. Her class still needs to curry the animals and put away their supplies; then there’s their customary informal debriefing—what went right, what went wrong, how to handle similar situations in the future—and settling back in to their quarters. 

“I should have been watching behind us,” says Leonie. Her shoulders are squared, and her chin held high, but the tightness to her voice and body belies the appearance of confidence. She still feels guilty over what happened. It’s equally clear she expects to get jumped on. “I was focused on the beach with everyone else when I ought to have been guarding the rear.”

Dimitri shakes his head. “No. If there was any fault to be had, it was mine. I was left to lead the group. I assumed the only enemies were in the cemetery and beach. I did not assign anyone to watch our backs.”

“The Boar has a point,” Felix drawls. “Except Leonie was scouting and didn’t notice that group, anyway. Sometimes mistakes happen.”

The comment is so strange coming from him, that most of the group falls silent. They’re all sitting in their usual seats in the Blue Lions classroom, door closed to keep out distractions, and everyone freshly bathed and clothed. Due to their circumstances, they’d been allowed special dispensation to take their meal from the dining hall on the caveat that they cleaned up after themselves, and the remains of their dinner is scattered across the classroom tables. 

Perched on the classroom-side of her desk, Byleth watches them all with guilt clawing up her throat. 

“Yes,” says Mercedes into the silence. She sends a warm smile in Felix’s directly. “We all did our best out there. The point is to learn from what went wrong and fix it, not beat ourselves up on should-haves.”

“Yes, perhaps Felix has a point,” agrees Ignatz. Then he adds, “The Professor has taught us to expect the unexpected, though. We should skip on the blame, but that doesn’t mean we can’t prepare better strategies for the future. I’m not sure how we can do that without determining what went wrong in the first place.”

“I wasn’t saying we shouldn’t examine it.” Felix sighs and turns to Leonie, “Just that you should skip the self-flagellation. We had it out after the battle, and you admitted, then, what went wrong. Let it go, and focus on getting better.”

“So you aren’t going to keep rubbing my face in it?” Leonie crosses her arms, giving him a side-long look. 

“Rub your face in what? You got hurt on the field. We knew that was likely, since you’re new to the class and haven’t fought with us before. Weren’t we just discussing that before we left? It was our job to protect you and we didn’t.”

“ _ You _ did, though,” she reminds him. 

Behind Felix, Ingrid grins. “Better watch out, Fee. She might realize you’re actually a softie.”

Felix rubs the bridge of his nose. “Next person who calls me ‘Fee’ has to meet me on the training grounds,” he grouses. 

“Just tell me when,  _ Fee _ ,” Leonie replies, reaching over to steal a bread roll from the basket between them. The glare he shoots her is his usual, half-murderous one but even from this distance Byleth can see the slight upward tilt of his lips. 

“ _ Aaaat _ any rate,” interjects Sylvain, stretching his legs at such an obnoxious distance he ‘accidentally’ kicks the bench Felix is sitting on, “We still don’t know where that second group came from. I’m all about being ‘alert on the battlefield’ but I can’t help feeling like we’re missing something, there.”

He stuffs his hands behind his neck and grins as Felix’s glare turns on him.

“Mm,” hums Ashe. He doesn’t say anything, and Byleth doesn’t think anyone else heard him, but she’s felt the weight of his gaze more than once during this conversation, and feels it again, now. 

“I assumed, after we found the guard’s station near the road, that the group came from that direction,” says Dedue. “It is likely they believed any attack made by the Church would come from that direction.”

“Yes, it was quite fortunate Seteth offered an alternate route,” Dimitri muses.

“My brother and I know that area well. The fishing is quite wonderful in the spring.”

Flayn’s voice and smile are completely sincere. Truth, Byleth decides after a moment’s consideration. Not the entirety of it, but just enough to explain things. All except the ‘brother’ bit.

“I didn’t see anyone out that way while we were scouting,” says Leonie, “But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there. It makes the most sense.”

I did, thinks Byleth. She did see someone, and she was so focused on her own business that she’d dismissed it when another, more obvious threat came along. She’d been trying to play too many sides at once, and Leonie or Felix might easily have paid the ultimate price for it.

And wasn’t that terribly similar to what she’d accused Lonato of doing?

She looks around at her students, wanting to tell them the truth, and realizes, for the first time, that she’s afraid. Not of Rhea—though, yes, that fear still exists—but it was only an excuse. Maybe it had always been an excuse. 

She’s afraid of  _ them _ . Her students; her peers. Her friends? 

How can they be her friends if they don’t know who she really is? How can she ask them to trust her, when she never trusts them?

There was only ever one person in her life she believed accepted her as she was, for all the good and the bad. Only one person who didn’t judge every move she made; who let her rail and vent, laugh and smile, without expecting her to do that for every stranger that crossed her path. Only one person who understood what their jobs took out of her; how drained and wrong she felt with every slash of her blade, even when she knew what they did was necessary. How she’d learned to shut it all out just to keep going, and then shut everything else out, too, just to be safe.

It was just like Leonie, wasn’t it? Assuming the others thought less of her because she didn’t have a crest. Becoming hostile, in order to keep them from hurting her. But Leonie was wrong, and…

And it was just like Felix, too. What had she accused him of? Poking and prodding and pushing everyone away. Sure, he didn’t hide his feelings away to keep others out—he used his feelings like a sword, cutting and carving through the people who tried to get too close because he didn’t want to be hurt again. 

They were opposing sides of the same coin, weren’t they? 

“P-professor?” Bernadette asks. Byleth blinks, refocusing on the quiet classroom in front of her; every eye watching; reactions ranging from concern to confusion.

She touches her cheek, and her fingers come back damp. 

“Dammit,” Byleth mutters, scrubbing her cheeks dry. The damned mask slipped again. It keeps  _ slipping _ ; like it doesn’t quite fit anymore.

She clears her throat with a dry chuckle, and tries to smile like she would have with Jeralt. “Sorry. I guess I got lost in my own head again.”

Several pairs of eyebrows raise at her admission, but Bernadette, still standing close by, only looks pleasantly surprised. “Heh. I-I thought I was the only one who did that…”

Byleth shakes her head. When she doesn’t say anything else, Dimitri asks in the soft voice he typically reserves for their private conversation, “What was your opinion on the battle, Professor?”

“My opinion…”

Byleth looks around one more time, meeting every set of eyes in turn. She pauses the longest on Flayn and Ashe. One of whom she isn’t entirely sure she  _ can  _ trust—though the girl had lied for her without prompting just the day before—and the other who deserves an explanation more than anyone else in this room. Can she trust them? Can she let them see who she really is?

Sothis offers no advice; no absolution or condemnation. But Byleth thinks she knows the girl’s answer. 

Let the chips fall. 

“I think I nearly got someone killed. And I owe you all an explanation.”

#

If the room was quiet before, it is silent as a tomb now. Byleth clasps her hands in front of her as though she’s giving a lecture. If this goes wrong—

No. Dammit,  _ no _ . She is not using her powers on this. She is not using her powers outside of the battlefield ever again. 

She steels herself to accept the consequences of her own actions, and opens her mouth to speak. “I’ve been lying to you all. Everyone. Since the day I stepped foot in this monastery.”

Most of the gathered look sad, but not entirely surprised. That’s almost a relief. 

“About what?” prompts Dimitri.

“Myself, mostly.” She takes a deep breath, glancing at Leonie before looking Dimitri in the eyes. “You told me once, after the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion, that when we first met you believed I didn’t have any emotions before I came here. That I started learning these things recently. That I wasn’t pretending.

“There’s a bit of truth in that, I suppose. But you were wrong about the pretending part.” She swallows hard, looking at her clasped hands. It’s easier. “Coming to the monastery, being around all of you, I’ve started to let my guard down. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes because I can’t seem to help myself around you all. I—”

Byleth falters, not sure how to proceed without it sounding even more horrible than it is. Or perhaps, exactly as horrible as it is.

Then, from the back of the room, Leonie says, “Start at the beginning.”

“What?”

“The beginning. What you told me at the Captain’s wake.” Though Byleth waits for Leonie to add a question about whether or not that story was true, it never comes. And that gives her the courage to comply.

So she repeats what she told Leonie about how, only a few years ago, she’d taken a blow to the head that stole away all memory of the girl she’d been to that point. Of what it felt like to wake up in a world she didn’t understand, surrounded by carnage and fire. To love a man whose name she didn’t know, whose word she had no choice but to accept as truth.

“The part I didn’t tell you,” she says at the end, “That I haven’t ever told anyone, is that Dad’s story didn’t make sense.”

“What do you mean?”

Byleth braces herself. This is the part Leonie won’t want to hear. 

“He told me we were mercenaries, but the men he came to find me with  _ weren’t  _ mercenaries. They were farmers. Dad was dressed just like them, too. No armor. No sheath for a blade that wasn’t properly sized to him. I didn’t know what it meant back then, but I’ve spent the past few months learning just how much he’d been keeping from me. The church. His past. Everything about my own mother.”

“Do you know why?” asks Annette. Of all the people with parental issues in the room, she knows best what it is to have someone lie for the sake of what they called love. 

“No. But I’ve been piecing it together over the past year. You all wondered—asked me—at different times how I didn’t know about the church, or why I didn’t understand crests. I told you some variation of ‘I don’t know.’ But it was never entirely true.”

Again, she repeats what she’d told Leonie a few days earlier. When she gets to the part about thinking crests were birthmarks, Sylvain laughs. 

“Seriously, Professor?”

Byleth shrugs. “I had no reason to think anything else. The knowledge is so common no one ever thought to explain, I guess. And I—I didn’t really talk to people much, before I came here. Not besides my father and Luca, anyway.”

“He’s the one you were speaking to at the vigil, right?” Dimitri asks. “Who led you away.”

“That’s right.”

“Wait.” Ignatz frowns, turning a curious eye on Byleth. “That song you sang, about the meadow? I thought told Lady Rhea that your father used to sing it to you as a child.”

The memory of the song stings, and the words catch a little in her throat, but Byleth presses forward, “That’s what he told me, yes. It was the only  _ specific _ thing I remembered from before. I thought he deserved to hear it one last time.”

“So you ‘lied’ to us about specific details of your past,” Felix says into the temporary lull that follows, “Fine. I don’t really agree that this is any of our business in the first place, or warrants some big confession, but  _ fine _ . How do you figure this nearly got us killed?”

“Because I saw them. I saw the group by the road, and I ignored it.”

Dimitri’s eyes widen as Felix sputters, “Excuse me?”

“I-I don’t understand,” studders Annette. “Why would you  _ ignore  _ that?”

Her voice is nearly lost beneath Leonie’s, “How? I didn’t see them and I was with you!”

“Everyone, please,” Dimitri calls over the din, holding his hands up. He steps forward, putting himself between Byleth and the class. “Please. Let’s hear the professor out.”

When he turns to face her, his eyes are colder than she’s ever seen. He waits, impassively, as she finds her voice again.

“When we got here, to the monastery, the first thing my father said—he told me not to trust anyone. To keep my own council, and—”

Felix snaps, “What does  _ that  _ have to do with—”

“Let her speak,” Ashe snaps in return, stunning Felix so badly the boy actually does stop mid-sentence. “Go on, Professor.”

“The point is, Dad—Jeralt—he made it very clear to me that something was wrong, here. It seemed an obvious conclusion. After all, who in their right mind drafts someone like me into a professorship? I had no training or formal education. I might have been a mercenary, but that didn’t mean I was qualified for this. And I know I’m not the only one who noticed.”

No one says anything. They can’t. Every one of them must have thought it at least once.

“So I played along, expecting Dad to tell me what was wrong, eventually. Only he died. And things that had seemed strange before began to seem ominous. All that business with Lonato and the Western Church; the Flame Emperor; that strange man posing as Tomas… I wanted—I  _ needed _ answers.”

“And the only people you had available to ask were the ones you were told not to trust,” Dimitri says slowly. His voice is even; less angry than before. It’s easier to meet his eyes.

She nods. “I was hoping to find a way to speak with the Western Church about why they’ve opened hostilities. I thought they had specific concerns about the Central Church’s leadership or policies.  _ Reasons  _ why they’d go so far as inciting a Lord to rebel, using commoners as canon fodder, no less.”

“I admit, I was surprised at the way that was handled,” Mercedes says quietly, like she’s waiting for someone to denounce her as a heretic. And doesn’t that say quite a lot about the situation?

Byleth nods. She glances at Flayn, feeling quite the heel even as she admits the next part, “I did try to bring it up with Seteth on our way to the graveyard, but I messed that up. So my next plan, once I surveyed the area, was to try and get the Western Church’s commander alone for questioning before Seteth had a chance to catch up. I didn’t want him to know.”

“How does that equate to letting us be blindsided?” Ingrid sounds honestly confused, at least.

“That wasn’t intentional,” Byleth said. “It happened—Leonie—It happened when you spotted the archer. You remember?”

She nods. “We were going to look around the far corner on the wooded side. I had to yank you back…” Suddenly, the girl pales. “You’d been too busy staring at the road.”

“I thought I saw something moving over there. Just for a second. And then there was that archer on top of us, and Ashe’s signal, and I—I forgot to double check. I forgot all about what I saw until after the battle was over.”

Quiet, again. Thick, palpable quiet as everyone stares at her. Byleth’s shoulders hunch under the weight of their regard. Every instinct she has screams at her to pulse back to the beginning of this conversation; to erase every second she’d spent opening herself up like this. It was a mistake. Now they understood how irredeemable she is. How manipulative and selfish and inhumane—

She barely registers the giggling before it turns into full blown, raucous laughter. 

Dimitri leans his hip into the side of her desk. The anger is gone, replaced by such understanding that whatever small shards of her mask were left crumble to dust as he nudges her shoulder with his own. Byleth follows the flick of his chin toward the other students. Some are shaking their heads, other wiping their eyes. Ashe seems a trifle less amused than the others, but even his smile is warm when he meets her eyes. 

“Professor,” says Ingrid, through her giggles, “You made it sound like you led us into an ambush on  _ purpose _ .”

“Honestly,” says Felix, with exasperation that doesn’t match the smile in his eyes, “I’m beginning to question your judgement. Missing a detail is one thing, but beating yourself to pieces because you didn’t intuit the meaning behind something you barely saw in the woods?”

He shakes his head meaningfully.

“Felix is actually right for once,” says Annette. “No one is perfect. I’m kind of glad you aren’t, actually. Er—”

Sylvain wags a finger at Annette. “Nu-uh, Annette. Say what you feel. That’s what this is all about, right? The professor coming clean, us talking shit about the Church; we’re laying it all out on the table. And since we’re doing that, can we take a minute to discuss these heinous uniforms? I mean—”

“Oh Goddess, not this again,” Ingrid groans.

“I don’t know, I think Sylvain has a point,” says Mercedes. And then they’re off again; back to familiar, safe arguments that don’t contain hidden snares or emotional payloads.

Byleth is aware what they’re doing, of course. After that little meltdown they all need some time to process and consider what was said. She takes a deep breath, trying to reassure herself that this is okay, after all. That, like Annette said, she doesn’t need to be perfect. She doesn’t need to pretend—at least, not with them.

She doesn’t quite succeed until she feels Dimitri’s hand slide on top of hers. Her fingers lift, twining around his in a loose, careful hold, and they don’t look at each other. They also don’t pull away when they catch others looking at them. 

Later, when things have settled again, she’ll need to tell them more. Ashe deserves to know about the Western Church, and what little she’s found out. Flayn should be filled in on her conversation with Seteth, and Byleth’s own growing suspicions there. And, yes, she needs to have a talk with Rhea.

But those things can wait. Right now, in this moment, she can just be Byleth. Among friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it over? oh my goddess it's over! *collapses* 
> 
> Thank you all sooooo so much for your comments and kudos throughout this process! I was getting a bit unsure if I'd ever find the *right* ending for this one, but I'm pretty happy with where I'm leaving it. There are a few unfinished threads, but don't worry! They're just laying the groundwork for what comes next. 
> 
> There's probably going to be one or two more short works, and then I'm looking at "part two," which is probably going to be a near complete rewrite given everything i've changed. I'm thinking really heavily about simply having a single, multi-chapter fic for that. I also want to go back and sprinkle in a few other things from Part One, but we'll see.
> 
> I've been meaning to mention, but if you want to hear me yell about FE3H stuff as I try to finish the other routes (as well as my ultimate goal of a "perfect" Blue Lions route when I've amassed a shitton of reknown), fanart, and ficupdates, etc., my tumblr can be found at azureliongoddess. Bet you can't guess what that's referencing.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhhhhhh so this is the series' first multipart fic! I reached about fifteen pages and was like "hey, yeah, this could maybe stand some separation," so here we go. There should be three chapters, maybe four if people keep having forever-long conversations. 
> 
> I'd like to thank an anon for asking about the Blue Lions reaction to Leonie because it made me realize there WOULD be some conflict, there, which is an excellent backdrop to Bye's own internal conflicts surrounding the Academy. Plus, it's a great moment to really get into some work with the Blue Lion students themselves. Words cannot express how much I love these idiots, really. 
> 
> ETA: Realized there was a point of confusion around Leonie's reaction to Jeralt's crest, so i added a line to clarify.
> 
> (also another hunger games nod because i can~)
> 
> I also kind of wanted time to build up into my more thorough take on Part Two. I realize how much I've skipped over of the Part One stuff, but so far that's been handled in flashbacks when it's actually necessary, so I figure what the hell, right? I have no intentions of making one huge fic out of this, but a few will probably be small multi-parters like this.


End file.
